J.  E.  STUBBS. 


I 


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« 
HH^^H 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


The 
Trilogy  of  Rome 

By 

ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 

"  The  Greatest  of  Italian  Novelists  " 

(Authorized  American  Editions) 

1.  The  Patriot 

(Piccolo  Mondo  Antico) 

2.  The  Sinner 

(Piccolo  Mondo  Moderno) 

3.  The  Saint 

(II  Santo) 

THE  first  of  these  romances  is  an  impassioned 
story  of  lovers  struggling  to  break  the  barriers 
of  aristocratic  prejudice  that  oppose  their  marriage. 
It  is  also  a  story  of  patriotism — of  the  freeing  of 
Italy  from  the  Austrian  yoke. 

In  The  Sinner,  the  second  book  of  this  Trilogy, 
we  read  the  dramatic  story  of  Piero  Maironi,  the 
son  of  the  hero  of  The  Patriot,  and  of  his  love  for 
the  beautiful  Jeanne  Dessalle,— a  story  that  pre- 
sents a  vivid  picture  of  the  Italian  world  of  rank 
and  fashion,  and  involves,  too,  a  study  of  political 
and  ecclesiastical  life. 

In  The  Saint,  the  concluding  novel  in  the  series, 
the  hero  of  The  Sinner  and  the  lover  of  Jeanne 
Dessalle  appears  as  a  penitent  full  of  religious 
zeal  that  finds  a  double  outlet— in  asceticism 
and  works  of  mercy  and  in  an  attempt  to  reform 
the  Church  of  Rome  from  within. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


THE  SINNER 


THE  SINNER 


By 

ANTONIO    FOGAZZARO 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  SAINT,"  "  THE  PATRIOT,"  ETC. 


Translated  from  the  Italian  by 
M.   PRICHARD-AGNETTI 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK.    AND    LONDON 

dbe  fuiicfeerbocfcer  prcsa 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Published,  May,  1907 
Reprinted,  September,  1907 


TEbe  *n«cfeerbocfter  preae,  Hew  tforfc 


Introductory  Note 

FIVE  years  were  allowed  to  elapse  between  the 
publication  of  The  Patriot  (1896)  and  of  The 
Sinner  (1901),  which  came  as  a  second  link  in  the 
chain  to  which  Fogazzaro  added  the  third  in  1905, 
The  Saint. 

During  those  five  years  the  author  published 
a  book  of  verse,  and  one  of  essays;  delivered 
lectures  in  many  different  places,  and  wrote 
numberless  articles  for  newspapers  and  reviews; 
but  notwithstanding  these  manifold  occupations 
he  devoted  much  time  to  moulding  and  shaping 
the  characters,  to  studying  and  arranging  the 
incidents  that  were  to  form  the  work  in  which 
he  has  shown  us  the  son  of  Franco  and  Luisa 
Maironi  in  all  the  strength  and  heat  of  early 
manhood. 

Fogazzaro,  who  finds  in  J.  Le  Conte's  Evolu- 
tion and  its  Relation  to  Religious  Thought  only 
a  confirmation  and  an  expansion  of  doctrines 
which  his  own  poetic  instincts  have  long  since 
made  dear  to  him,  cannot  fail  to  be  a  stanch  be- 
liever in  the  influences  of  heredity,  and  thus,  after 
his  loving  but  relentless  dissection  of  the  souls 
of  Franco  and  Luisa  in  The  Patriot,  he  leads  us 

iii 

2039490 


iv  The    Sinner 

on  to  a  no  less  loving  and  relentless  dissection  of 
the  soul  of  their  son  Piero,  in  The  Sinner. 

The  gentle  and  affectionate  Franco,  whose 
strength  lay  in  his  firm  faith  alone,  and  the  pas- 
sionate, rebellious  Luisa,  whose  grief  at  the  loss  of 
her  baby  child  drove  her  to  the  verge  of  madness, 
renew  their  struggle  in  their  son's  nature,  and 
while  unbelief  and  passion  are  raging  within  him, 
thrusting  ascetic  virtue  aside,  his  own  innate 
purity  and  the  "fierce  honesty"  of  the  mother, 
whose  face  he  never  knew,  are  ever  struggling  to 
hold  him  in  check. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  author's  own 
opinion  of  his  hero's  mental  condition,  but  it  is 
characteristic  of  Fogazzaro's  perfect  sincerity,  that 
he  gives  us  the  opinion,  on  this  point,  of  a  specialist 
for  mental  diseases,  who  declares  Maironi  to  be 
suffering  from  a  religious  mania.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  when  we  lose  sight  of  him  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Lugano,  we  are  fully  prepared  to  find  him 
again  in  Benedetto,  and  if  anything  could  en- 
hance our  affection  and  reverence  for  that  saintly 
figure,  it  would  certainly  be  the  knowledge  of  his 
sufferings  and  temptations,  of  his  weaknesses  and 
virtues,  of  the  warring  within  him  of  sensuality 
and  asceticism,  which  The  Sinner  has  given  us. 

Beside  Piero  stands  Jeanne,  poor,  weak,  lovable, 
and  adoring  Jeanne,  whose  "soul  would  be  sub- 
lime could  she  give  to  the  Creator  the  love  she  has 
bestowed  upon  a  creature."  She  and  her  brother, 
the  shallow  but  delightful  Carlino,  are  legitimate 


Introductory    Note  v 

products  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  they  were 
born  and  bred,  and 'the  "smart"  people  they  call 
about  them  are  in  sharp  and  striking  contrast  with 
the  narrow-minded,  straight-laced  provincials  who 
figure  at  Jeanne's  reception  at  beautiful  Villa  Diedo. 

Many  whimsical  and  humorous  touches  enliven 
the  book,  and  the  minor  characters  are  admirably 
sustained. 

Marchesa  Nene,  whose  housewifely  thrift  is  at 
once  so  ludicrous  and  so  petty,  rises  to  great 
heights  of  fortitude  and  self-abnegation  when 
sorrow  knocks  at  her  door,  and  again  when  she 
endeavours  to  hide  the  misdemeanours  of  her 
ambitious  and  not  over-scrupulous  husband,  the 
worthy  Zaneto. 

Don  Giuseppe  Flores — drawn  from  Don  Giu- 
seppe Fogazzaro,  the  author's  uncle — is  a  model 
priest,  gentle  and  forgiving ;  and  his  interview  with 
the  poor,  afflicted,  inarticulate  Marchesa  in  the 
garden  of  Villa  Flores  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  affecting  pages  Fogazzaro  has  penned. 

The  scene  of  the  present  story  is  laid  in  one  of 
the  smaller  towns  in  the  province  of  Venice.  The 
events  described  take  place  in  the  eighties,  and 
thus  the  author  is  enabled  to  give  us  some  account 
of  the  intriguing  and  scheming  of  modern  political 
parties,  as  well  as  of  the  mode  of  life  and  line  of 
thought  of  the  provincial  aristocracy,  who  possess 
much  religious  fervour  of  a  narrow,  superstitious 
sort,  resort  to  much  pinching  and  managing  in 
private,  and  make  a  great  display  of  ill-fitting, 


vi  The  Sinner 

shabby  liveries,  and  of  bright-coloured,  showy 
escutcheons  in  public. 

The  marvellous  descriptions  of  nature  which 
adorn  all  of  this  author's  works  are  not  wanting 
in  The  Sinner.  Vena  di  Fonte  Alta,  Villa 
Diedo,  the  monastery  on  the  hill-side,  and  his 
beloved  Valsolda  are  all  dwelt  upon  with  delight, 
and  described  with  poetic  fervour  and  masterly 
eloquence. 

Fogazzaro,  like  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  sees  a  soul 
in  all  things,  in  the  blade  of  grass  and  in  the 
mountain,  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  in  the  lower- 
ing storm-cloud,  and  he  feels  himself  one  with  all 
the  creations  of  the  great  Creator.  Few  Italians 
have  loved  and  described  nature  for  herself  alone, 
have  felt  their  hearts  beat  in  true  unison  with  her. 
Many  have  used  her,  indeed,  but  too  often  simply 
as  a  setting,  a  background,  as  it  were,  for  human 
figures.  Even  the  Divine  Poet  himself  never 
entirely  lost  his  personal  attitude  when  describing 
nature,  and  although  Petrarch  did  at  times  allow 
her  to  play  upon  the  chords  of  his  heart,  his  fol- 
lowers had  little  or  no  feeling  for  her.  To  find 
the  true  nature-lover  in  Italian  literature  we  must 
look  to  the  moderns,  and  among  those  to  whom 
she  utters  her  sweetest,  her  purest  and  strongest 
thoughts  is  Antonio  Fogazzaro. 

MARY  PRICHARD-AGNETTI. 
BORDIGHERA,  in  February,  1907. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I 
CONCERNING  AN  EGG       .....         i 

CHAPTER  II 
IN  THE  MONASTERY         .         .          .          .          .49 

CHAPTER  III 
ECLIPSES       .         .          .          .          .          .          .126 

CHAPTER  IV 
THE  COMMENDATORE'S  COFFEE         .         .         .174 

CHAPTER  V 

NUMINA,  NON  NOMINA     .....       238 

CHAPTER  VI 

VENA  DI  FONTE  ALTA      .....     300 
CHAPTER  VII 

IN  LUMINE  VlTAE  .  .  .  .  .  .358 

CHAPTER  VIII 
WITHOUT  TRACE    ......     403 


THE  SINNER 

CHAPTER  I 
CONCERNING  AN  EGG 


THE  aged  Marchesa  Nene  Scremin,  a  frown  on 
her  face  and  arrayed  in  her  reception  dress, 
was  dusting  her  drawing-room  herself.  She  rubbed 
the  backs  of  the  chairs  with  her  handkerchief, 
rubbed  the  carving  of  the  sofa  and  the  armchairs, 
the  shelves  of  the  etageres  in  the  corners,  and  the 
globe  over  the  clock.  One  by  one  she  raised  the 
gilt  candlesticks  from  the  black  marble  mantel- 
shelf ;  one  by  one  she  raised  from  the  white  marble 
table  the  vases,  the  photograph-stands,  the  bon- 
bonieres  and  other  knick-knacks  which  had  ac- 
cumulated in  consequence  of  a  fabulously  long 
series  of  birthdays  and  anniversaries ;  she  polished 
the  marble,  and  brushed  away  the  little  clouds  of 
dust,  grumbling  the  while  at  that  miserable 
Federico  who  only  made  a  pretext  of  dusting. 
Poor  Federico,  misshapen,  rather  bald  and  almost 
entirely  toothless,  came  in  just  at  that  moment 
in  his  working  blouse,  to  say  that  the  old  gardener, 
the  one  who  had  been  dismissed  two  months  before, 
was  outside  and  wished  to  speak  to  her. 


2  The   Sinner 

"Tell  him  to  wait,"  said  the  Marchesa.  "And 
what  are  you  about,  I  should  like  to  know,  that 
you  have  not  dressed  yourself?  Don't  you  know 
it  is  Tuesday?  You  pretend  to  have  dusted  here, 
do  you?  Don't  you  see  what  a  pig-sty  this  room 
is?" 

"Pig-sty,  indeed!"  said  Federico  in  amazement. 
"Pig-sty,  indeed!  At  any  rate  I  spent  two  hours 
here  this  morning." 

"  Well,  you  must  have  been  asleep  then !  Have 
you  taken  Tonina  her  egg?" 

Tonina  was  an  invalid  housemaid  whom  the 
Scremins  maintained  out  of  charity.  Federico 
declared  that  he  did  not  know  whether  they  had 
taken  her  the  habitual  egg  at  noon,  and  at  this 
point  the  cook  appeared  to  repeat  the  gardener's 
message.  Notwithstanding  the  presence  of  their 
mistress  the  two  servants  had  a  lively  dispute 
about  this  uncalled  for  repetition.  But  the 
Marchesa,  filled  with  dark  forebodings,  wished  to 
know  about  the  egg,  and  was  informed  by  the 
cook  that  the  scullery-maid  had  carried  it  to 
Tonina,  but  that  Tonina  was  not  feeling  well,  and 
had  not  eaten  it.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a 
drama!  What  then  had  become  of  the  egg? 
Silence !  Was  it  possible  that  some  one  had  eaten 
it?  That  some  one  had  forgotten  it  was  Lent? 

Federico  muttered :  "  It  is  surely  in  the  kitchen." 

The  Marchesa  stuffed  her  dirty  handkerchief  into 
her  pocket  and  went  straight  to  the  kitchen.  She 
searched  here,  she  searched  there,  but  no  egg 


Concerning  an  Egg  3 

could  she  find.  She  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
called  to  the  coachman  who  was  cleaning  harnesses 
in  the  courtyard.  While  he  was  on  his  way  up- 
stairs she  went  to  the  head  of  the  dark  and  narrow 
back-stairway,  intending  to  call  the  scullery- 
maid,  and  seeing  some  one  in  the  shadow,  thought 
it  must  be  the  coachman,  and  asked  sharply: 

"Did  you  take  an  egg?" 

"  Do  you  mean  me,  Signora? "  the  person  replied 
timidly.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  any 
eggs!" 

The  Marchesa  concluded  that  this  was  a  beggar, 
and  flung  out  sharply :  "  There  is  nothing  for  you ! " 
Then  the  person  explained  that  he  was  the  former 
gardener.  "  Oh,  very  well,  wait."  And  the  old 
dame  returned  to  her  egg  hunt. 

No  one  had  taken  that  egg,  neither  the  scullery- 
maid,  the  coachman,  nor  the  housemaid.  The 
Marchesa  went  to  look  for  the  steward,  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  coming  to  the  kitchen  for  a  cup  of 
coffee  soon  after  noon. 

" Have  you  seen  an  egg?" 

"An  egg,  Signora?" 

The  poor  steward,  who  could  not  deny  having 
seen  more  than  one  egg  in  the  course  of  his  exist- 
ence, but  did  not  dare  to  say  as  much  at  the  present 
moment,  simply  stared,  open-mouthed.  Mean- 
while on  the  stairs,  in  the  rooms,  in  the  corridor, 
in  the  kitchen,  the  five  servants  were  muttering 
insolent  soliloquies,  and  the  missing  egg  filled  the 
house. 


4  The  Sinner 

"And  all  for  an  egg!"  grumbled  the  coachman, 
greatly  put  out  at  having  been  made  to  climb  so 
many  stairs  for  nothing.  "  And  they  keep  horses 
and  carriages,  the  skinflints!" 

At  that  moment  his  mistress  summoned  him 
again.  She  wished  to  know  if  he  had  seen  his 
master.  He  answered  very  roughly  that  he  had 
not. 

"The  master  is  probably  at  the  Cathedral," 
said  the  housemaid,  who  was  standing  behind  the 
Marchesa.  "  He  has  probably  gone  there  for  the 
hour's  adoration." 

The  old  lady  was  well  aware  that  in  considera- 
tion of  certain  political  ambitions  her  husband 
had  not  for  some  time  donned  the  surplice  of  the 
members  of  the  Confraternity  of  the  Cathedral,  but 
she  remained  silent. 

Just  then  a  small  boy  came  out  of  the  stable  with 
an  armful  of  hay. 

"Ho,  there!"  shouted  the  Marchesa  angrily. 
"Where  is  that  hay  going?" 

This  time  the  coachman  answered  with  a  great 
show  of  solemnity,  for  he  was  glad  of  this  oppor- 
tunity of  silencing  her,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
of  giving  expression  to  his  secret  contempt  for 
some  one  else. 

"It  is  the  young  master's  hay.  It  is  going  by 
special  order  of  the  young  master." 

Federico,  who  was  buttoning  his  livery,  muttered 
another  soliloquy  concerning  the  young  master's 
following  of  ragamuffins.  The  "young  master/' 


Concerning  an  Egg  5 

the  son-in-law  of  the  "old  masters,"  occupied 
one  wing  of  the  palace  and  kept  a  saddle-horse 
in  the  stables.  Even  the  needy  cab-drivers  had 
now  begun  to  sponge  on  him,  and  he  was 
giving  the  hay  away.  Federico  advised  the 
gardener  not  to  wait,  but  to  return  towards  four 
o'clock,  when  the  young  master  would  be  coming 
home. 

"  You  see  the  mistress  has  got  an  egg  in  her 
head,  and  to-morrow  it  may  be  a  whole  chicken. 
Talk  to  the  young  master.  Now  that  they  have 
made  him  town  councillor  it  is  just  the  right 
moment." 

The  arrival  of  the  first  callers  interrupted  the 
Marchesa's  investigations  just  as  they  were  about 
to  lead  to  a  most  unexpected  and  embarrassing 
discovery.  She  still  maintained  social  intercourse 
with  the  whole  town,  and  her  note-book  contained 
a  list  of  ninety-seven  calls,  which  must  be  paid  in 
December  and  April,  these  being  the  residue  of  a 
list  of  one  hundred  and  forty-six  calls,  the  number 
she  had  reached  in  her  youth,  in  compliance  with 
her  husband's  wish,  and  again,  perhaps,  in  those 
years  of  fatigue  and  anxiety,  when  she  had  felt 
obliged  to  exhibit  her  daughter.  Her  Tuesday 
receptions  were,  however,  usually  very  small 
gatherings,  because  both  her  intimate  friends  and 
her  humble  friends  avoided  that  solemn  day. 
But  on  this  special  Tuesday,  partly  because  it  was 
the  Marchesa's  birthday,  partly  by  chance,  many 


6  The  Sinner 

people  came.  The  humble  friends  came  early 
that  they  might  not  meet  the  grand  friends.  They 
were  three  or  four  little  old  women,  stiff  and 
decorous  in  the  dignity  of  their  ceremonious 
manners  and  their  silks,  and  in  the  consciousness 
of  their  modest  gentility.  The  familiar  "thou" 
which  they  used  with  Marchesa  Nene  held  a 
hidden  and  touching  spirit  of  respect  and  secret 
satisfaction.  The  Marchesa  got  along  with  these 
friends  better  than  with  the  others,  for,  as  regards 
religious  practices,  abstinences  and  fasts,  they  all, 
like  herself,  had  consciences  of  the  whiteness  of 
ermine,  so  white  indeed  that  the  smallest  drop  of 
milk  would  have  stained  them.  In  their  con- 
versation these  old  ladies  had  always  so  carefully 
avoided  any  allusion  to  politics,  elections,  or 
Communal  Councils,  as  well  as  to  any  other  sub- 
ject unconnected  with  the  weather,  with  the 
health,  interests  and  family  affairs  of  some  one, 
or,  at  the  most,  with  the  genius  and  lungs  of  some 
preacher,  they  had  all  so  invariably  lapsed  into 
silence,  with  the  same  imposing  dignity,  when 
others  mentioned  either  politics  or  questions  of 
doubtful  morality,  that  now  they  did  not  know 
how  to  congratulate  the  mother-in-law  upon  her 
son-in-law's  nomination  as  town  councillor,  which 
had  taken  place  two  days  before. 

After  they  had  all  lamented,  in  the  same  voice, 
that  really  most  fortunate  fall  in  the  temperature, 
which  had  served  to  revive  a  languishing  con- 
versation in  most  of  the  drawing-rooms  of  the 


Concerning  an  Egg  7 

town,  the  bravest  among  them  risked  a  gentle 
hint. 

"I  am  told  your  son-in-law  has  had  a  great 
honour  conferred  upon  him!  Poor  fellow!  How 
good  he  is! " 

The  other  little  old  women  cooed  in  their 
cracked  and  unctuous  voices:  "Indeed  he  is! — 
So  good! — Every  one  says  so! — How  glad  we 
all  are!" 

Marchesa  Nene  assumed  a  serious  expression, 
and  said:  "  'Tis  but  poor  comfort,  after  all,"  Then 
from  her  friends  there  came  a  few  sad  and  mys- 
terious words  of  sympathy  and  hope,  which  were 
allowed  to  pass  unheeded.  Presently  the  con- 
versation returned  to  the  son-in-law's  virtues, 
and  instead  of  addressing  the  Marchesa  the  good 
dames,  moved  by  a  refinement  of  adulation, 
discussed  these  virtues  among  themselves.  One 
had  heard  the  parish  priest  at  the  Cathedral  praise 
Signer  Maroni's  piety  to  the  skies;  another  told 
how  her  maid  met  Maroni  every  day  at  the  early 
Mass.  The  most  timid  of  all  contented  herself 
with  correcting  the  others  in  an  undertone  when 
they  mispronounced  the  hero's  name,  but  for  all 
her  murmured  "Maironis,"  they  continued  to  call 
him  "Maroni,"  and  there  was  indeed  some  excuse 
for  them,  because  the  Marchesa  herself,  who  was 
in  the  habit  of  remodelling  both  Christian  and 
surnames  to  suit  the  dialect,  said  "  Maroni"  three 
times  out  of  four.  Then  the  conversation  turned 
to  the  marriage  of  the  clerk  at  the  haberdasher's 


8  The  Sinner 

shop  where  all  these  ladies  purchased  their  needles 
and  thread. 

Later,  when  the  shabby  callers  had  left,  some 
ladies  and  a  couple  of  cavaliers  arrived  almost 
simultaneously.  They  had  made  an  appointment 
to  meet  there,  in  order  to  relieve  the  tedium  of 
this  visit  to  an  old  woman  who  did  not  lead  a 
sufficiently  worldly  life  to  permit  of  their  discussing 
the  doings  of  Dame  Fashion  with  her,  nor  one 
sufficiently  retired  to  justify  them  in  dropping  her 
entirely.  The  same  music  as  before  was  played 
over  again,  but  this  time  in  a  different  key. 
They  discussed  the  cold  weather,  and  the  ladies 
and  their  cavaliers  alluded  to  a  picnic,  to  an  im- 
portant question  of  diplomacy,  to  certain  persons 
whose  presence  was  not  desired  by  the  rest  of  the 
company.  The  bare  idea  of  an  early  morning 
stage-drive  made  several  among  them  shiver, 
nevertheless  they  were  ready  to  freeze  in  silence 
in  consideration  of  the  smart  nature  of  the  ex- 
cursion and  of  the  distinguished  company.  Pres- 
ently a  lady  who  was  given  to  dabbling  in  politics, 
boldly  broached  the  subject  of  the  elections,  while 
the  others  were  lost  in  admiration  of  her  eloquence 
and  daring,  and  one  of  the  cavaliers  made  some 
burlesque  grimaces.  Then  he  also  became  loud 
in  his  congratulations,  which  he  interlarded  with 
observations  uttered  in  an  undertone  for  the 
benefit  of  his  neighbours. 

"See  if  Federico  does  not  come  in  presently 


Concerning  an  Egg  9 

with  four  cups  of  holy- water! — I  am  willing  to 
wager  anything  the  Councillor  is  in  his  room, 
shrouded  in  the  cope,  and  reciting  the  Te  Deum 
before  his  private  altar! — I  can  hear  him  now 
getting  up  in  the  Council  and  intoning,  et  cum 
spiritu  tuo." 

His  neighbours  bit  their  lips  and  murmured: 

"Do  be  quiet!"  while  he  declared  the  Marchesa 
was  deaf. 

"Ah!  ah!"  he  whispered,  when  the  Prefect  was 
announced.  "Ah!  now  we  shall  have  to  talk 
properly!  If  I  had  known  he  was  to  be  here  I 
would  have  brought  my  grammar  along : " 1 

The  Commendatore  Prefetto,  a  good-natured 
Tuscan  who  loved  a  quiet  life,  had  resided  in  his 
modest  Venetian  capital  only  a  month,  and  having 
been  presented  to  the  Marchesa  by  her  husband  in 
the  train,  he  was  now  come  to  pay  a  first  and 
ceremonious  call,  and  was  only  too  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  flatter  Marchese  Zaneto,  and  to 
take  advantage  of  his  senatorial  ambitions,  in 
order  to  win  him  away,  little  by  little,  from  the 
clerical  party.  The  Marchesa,  who  was  always 
extremely  embarrassed  with  people  who  spoke 
Italian,  received  him  in  a  manner  calculated  to 
greatly  embarrass  him  also.  Fortunately  the 
eloquent  lady  had  met  the  Commendatore  several 
times  at  the  house  of  mutual  friends  in  Florence. 

1  It  must  be  remembered  that  previous  to  the  arrival  of  the 
Prefect  the  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  dialect. — 
Translator's  note. 


io  The  Sinner 

She  immediately  announced  this  circumstance, 
spoke  familiarly  with  him,  and,  another  lady 
being  seated  between  herself  and  the  Prefect,  she 
introduced  her  in  an  undertone,  to  show  that  she 
was  aware  the  mistress  of  the  house  should  have 
done  this,  but  that  she  was  only  taking  a  friendly 
liberty. 

"We  had  better  tell  Nene  her  presence  here  is 
unnecessary,  and  that  she  can  go  and  weigh  out 
the  butter  in  the  kitchen,"  said  the  satirical  cav- 
alier softly  to  his  neighbour. 

In  fact  the  poor  Marchesa,  whose  strict  domestic 
economy  was  well  known,  was  listening  in  silence 
to  the  brilliant  duet  that  was  going  on  between  her 
friend  and  the  Commendatore,  who,  in  that  first 
moment  of  confusion,  had  eagerly  grasped  the  only 
hand  that  was  extended  to  him.  Of  course  he  did 
not  breathe  a  word  concerning  Maironi's  election 
by  the  clerical  party,  but,  not  knowing  what  to 
say  to  her,  complimented  the  Marchesa  on  her 
beautiful  fifteenth  century  palace,  and  was  in- 
formed by  her  that  the  late  Professor  Canella  had 
also  greatly  admired  it.  At  that  moment  the 
facetious  cavalier  and  the  eloquent  lady  rose  to 
go,  and  the  Prefect  also  took  his  departure,  with- 
out waiting  to  inquire  who  "the  deuce"  the 
illustrious  Canella  might  have  been. 

Outside,  the  deserted  street  wras  sparkling  in  the 
March  sunshine.  The  restless  lady,  instead  of 
entering  her  carriage,  carried  her  two  companions 
off  for  a  walk  under  the  horse-chestnuts  of  the 


Concerning  an  Egg  1 1 

public  promenade,  which  were  already  sprinkled 
profusely  with  green.  The  Prefect  inquired  re- 
spectfully if  she  were  a  cousin  of  the  Scremins. 
Upon  being  informed  that  she  was  not,  he  turned 
to  the  cavalier. 

"Then  perhaps  you  are?"  said  he.  "No,  you 
are  not?  That  is  indeed  strange!" 

After  one  month's  residence  in  this  tiny  princi- 
pality of  his  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  all 
the  nobles  were  "at  least,  cousins,  by  Jove!" 
With  terror  he  pictured  to  himself  their  connections 
and  relationships  as  a  hopeless  tangle,  an  enor- 
mous, matted  skein  which  would  immediately 
draw  into  a  hard  knot  if  a  single  thread  were 
pulled.  For  this  reason  he  never  ventured  to 
speak  to  one  nobleman  of  another  without  infinite 
caution  and  ceremony.  He  was  anxious  to 
ascertain  the  true  value  of  this  clerical  councillor, 
this  son-in-law  without  a  wife,  of  this  mother-in- 
law  without  a  daughter.  He  was  totally  un- 
acquainted with  Maironi,  had  not  even  met  him 
anywhere  when  calling.  And  why,  Dio  bono!  does 
this  invisible  man  live  in  the  house  with  this 
speechless  woman,  he  wondered. 

Both  the  lady  who  dabbled  in  politics  and  the 
witty  cavalier  were  extremely  well  informed  con- 
cerning the  Scremins,  and  even  concerning  all 
their  servants,  from  the  famous  Federico,  who 
had  been  dismissed  by  the  Bishop  on  account  of  a 
certain  fascinating  female  who  dealt  in  poultry, 
down  to  the  scullery-maid,  who  was  cousin  to  that 


12  The  Sinner 

handsome  Matilde  of  Casa  X.  who  was  such  a 
favourite  with  her  master!  They  knew  how  much 
the  old  Marchesa  spent  every  month  for  sugar  and 
coffee,  and  how  fabulously  long  the  Marchese's 
socks  were.  They  could  have  furnished  the  Pre- 
fect with  a  complete  biography  of  the  new  coun- 
cillor, with  a  portrait  in  which  not  a  single  hair 
would  have  been  missing.  Perhaps  they  might 
have  omitted  certain  hidden  shadows  in  the  eyes 
which  their  intellect  was  not  capable  of  perceiving 
and  which  were  of  very  slight  importance  to  the 
provincial  administration.  But  neither  dared  en- 
lighten the  Prefect  in  the  presence  of  the  other,  who 
would  have  hastened  to  publish  the  fact  to  the 
world.  It  must  also  be  admitted  that  although 
they  were  neither  related  to  nor  intimate  with 
the  Scremins  they  nevertheless  felt  bound  by  a 
common  tie  of  cast  to  those  nobles  of  an  ancient 
race,  therefore  the  Prefect's  somewhat  disrespect- 
ful tone  had  troubled  them,  and  they  had  felt,  as  it 
were,  the  recoil  of  that  blow  aimed  at  the  aristo- 
cratic establishment,  from  whence,  although  they 
feigned  indifference,  they  in  reality  derived  no 
small  amount  of  secret  and  intense  satisfaction. 
The  sprightly  nobleman  might  ridicule  the  Scre- 
mins in  private,  as  he  did  later  on  when  he  had 
succeeded  in  worming  the  little  story  of  the  egg 
out  of  Federico,  but  in  public  it  was  quite  another 
matter,  and  whenever  he  met  Marchesa  Nene's 
carriage  he  would  salute  as  solemnly  and  as 
respectfully  as  if  a  member  of  the  Holy  Family 


Concerning  an  Egg  13 

were  passing.  Thus  the  Prefect  had  to  content 
himself  with  the  information  that  Piero  Maironi 
was  the  fruit  of  the  ill-assorted  union  of  Franco 
Maironi,  a  Brescian  nobleman,  with  a  person  who 
was  his  social  inferior.  Left  an  orphan  in  his  in- 
fancy, he  had  been  Marchese  Scremin's  ward,  and 
was,  moreover,  related  to  him  through  a  Marchesa 
Scremin  long  since  dead,  who  had  married  a 
Maironi,  and  who  was  the  young  man's  great- 
grandmother.  Piero  had  married  the  Scremin's 
only  daughter,  who  had  unfortunately  fallen  a 
victim  to  a  serious  mental  disorder  soon  after 
her  marriage,  and  had  now  for  four  years  been 
languishing  in  a  hopeless  state  in  an  insane  asylum. 
Her  husband  was  inconsolable,  never  went  into 
society,  lived  a  life  of  retirement,  was  most  regular 
in  his  attendance  at  church,  and  studied  a  great 
deal.  He  was  extremely  wealthy,  having  in- 
herited a  large  fortune  from  his  great-grand- 
mother. He  was  wealthier  than  the  Scremins, 
but  did  not  attend  to  his  affairs,  and  gave  largely 
in  charity. 

Finally  the  cavalier  and  the  lady  drove  off  in  the 
coupe,  which  had  been  following  them,  and  the 
poor  Prefect  would  indeed  have  felt  most  uncom- 
fortable could  he  have  heard  the  witty  gallant 
comment  gracefully  upon  the  form  of  his  hat, 
which  he  called  a  perfect  model  of  the  Pantheon, 
and  pronounce  his  voluminous  cravat  "a  most 
suitable  collar  for  a  Government  cart-horse."  As 
to  Maironi,  neither  the  cavalier  nor  the  lady  could 


H  The  Sinner 

abide  him,  and  having  served  the  Prefect,  they  fell 
upon  the  new  councillor,  whom  they  termed  a 
surly  creature,  a  hypocrite,  a  boor,  an  eccentric, 
secretly  ambitious  fellow,  who  probably  knew 
where  to  place  his  charities  that  they  might  bear 
good  fruit.  The  cavalier  even  went  so  far  as  to 
express  a  doubt  of  the  saintliness  of  a  young  man 
who  had  been  married  and  still  not  married  for 
four  years.  Poor  cavalier,  poor  lady!  They  also 
would  have  felt  most  uncomfortable  could  they 
have  heard  the  words  in  which  Captain  Reggini, 
of  the  Nizza  cavalry,  who  was  a  famous  cynic, 
addressed  the  Prefect,  his  compatriot,  under  the 
horse-chestnuts,  not  two  minutes  after  the  carriage 
had  driven  away. 

"  Now  will  you  tell  me,  my  good  Commendatore, 
what  you  were  doing  between  that  old  frump  and 
her  swain?  Don't  you  know  that  your  presence 
has  prevented  the  mingling  of  their  souls?" 

ii 

Marchesa  Nene  did  not  find  herself  alone  with 
her  husband  and  free  from  domestic  curiosity  until 
very  late  in  the  afternoon,  only  a  few  minutes 
before  the  evening  reception  would  begin. 

"The  egg?"  said  he,  very  humbly,  when  his 
wife  questioned  him  with  a  darkly  frowning  face. 
"  Don't  talk  about  it!  I  myself  took  it!  Indeed 
I  did!  I  know  I  was  a  fool,  but  you  need  n't  eat 
me!  I  was  a  fool,  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 


Concerning  an  Egg  15 

In  his  outburst  of  virtuous  humility  he  offered  to 
make  public  confession  in  the  kitchen. 

"Nonsense!"  grumbled  his  wife  with  knitted 
brows. 

Her  husband,  who  was  much  her  superior  in 
culture  and  much  her  inferior  in  soul,  cherished 
many  ambitions  of  which  she  was  ignorant,  and 
was  skilful  in  treading  certain  unstable  ways 
among  the  clouds,  and  certain  other  subterranean 
passages,  helical  galleries  these,  which  might  per- 
haps lead  him  by  easy  stages  with  his  load  of 
desires  and  scruples,  to  some  lofty  mountain-top; 
but  he  had  never  been  able  to  learn  to  tread  the 
common  ways  skilfully,  the  ways  in  which  the 
vulgar  herd  walks  swiftly;  indeed  he  was  even 
incapable  of  steering  a  straight  course  in  his  own 
house,  where  his  wife  stepped  about  so  briskly. 
She,  on  the  other  hand,,  whose  nature  was  a  most 
complicated  mingling  of  acuteness  and  dulness, 
of  generosity  and  parsimony,  of  romantic  kind- 
liness and  almost  harsh  firmness,  who  had  come 
into  the  world  without  imagination,  without 
passions,  without  egotism,  was  ever  inconsiderate 
of  self,  but  still  always  clung  tenaciously,  either 
openly  or  covertly,  to  her  own  wishes.  She  was 
quick  to  say  unpleasant  things  frankly,  but  was 
a  jealous  custodian  of  her  own  innermost  thoughts, 
and  possessed  a  keen  sense  of  the  poor  reality  with 
which  she  had  surrounded  not  only  the  undying 
strength  of  her  gloomy  and  deep  affections,  but 
her  wise  designs  and  her  vapid  speeches  as  well. 


16  The  Sinner 

She  was  devoted  to  her  husband  as  the  only 
man  to  whom  she  had  ever  given  a  thought;  she 
was  devoted  to  his  happiness,  which,  in  the  ethical 
field,  corresponded  less  to  his  own  wishes  than 
to  her  sentiments.  Zaneto's  incapacity  in  all 
practical  matters  was  a  source  of  secret  irritation 
to  her,  nor  would  the  acquisition  of  a  certain 
celebrity  as  an  archaeologist,  the  much  longed  for 
seat  in  the  Senate,  or  even  a  ministerial  portfolio, 
have  sufficed  to  banish  that  subtle  sense  of  con- 
tempt which  had  now  prompted  her  to  exclaim: 
"  Nonsense ! "  For  the  rest  of  the  evening  a  shade 
of  dissatisfaction  rested  upon  her  brow,  although 
from  time  to  time  the  old  man  would  attempt  to 
offer  her  certain  delicate  attentions,  and  the  con- 
versation of  the  assembled  friends — priests  and 
middle-class  people,  all  hangers-on  of  this  noble 
family — was  more  animated  than  usual. 

The  Casa  Scremin  drawing-room  was  a  sort  of 
laboratory  where,  every  evening,  words  picked  up 
in  other  houses  or  on  the  street,  were  brought  for 
analysis  and  dissection;  words  of  which  the  pro- 
prietors might  sometimes  be  identified,  or  floating, 
ownerless  words;  every  rumour,  indeed,  from 
which  an  interesting  fact,  or  a  spicy  suspicion  con- 
cerning some  one  might  be  pressed,  any  dark 
matter  was  welcome  from  which,  by  means  of  the 
proper  chemical  agents,  the  wavering  outline  of 
an  intrigue  might  be  evoked,  or  in  which  there 
lurked  the  scent  of  some  well  known  person,  who 


Concerning  an  Egg  17 

might  then  be  followed  on  his  secret  way,  and,  if 
possible,  stung  or  even  bitten  ever  so  slightly,  just 
enough  to  bring  out  the  flavour,  or  at  least  to 
allow  of  the  gathering  up  of  a  few  of  those  ex- 
ceeding fine  threads  which  form  that  delicate 
web  of  comedy  life  is  continually  weaving,  brush- 
ing aside  and  refashioning  again  around  every 
human  being.  The  laboratory  was  well  supplied 
both  with  salts  and  acids.  Discreet  and  decorous 
scandal  was  concocted  there  concerning  all  the 
sins  of  humanity  save  that  of  passion.  The  sins 
of  passion  were  strictly  excluded  from  the  con- 
versation. If  the  two  or  three  more  outspoken 
members  of  the  assembly  ever  ventured  to  infringe 
this  rule,  Marchese  Zaneto  would  at  once  raise 
his  voice,  and  exclaim:  "Tut,  tut,  tut!"  and  it 
seldom  happened  that  the  persistence  of  a  rebel 
forced  him  to  add  hastily  and  in  a  still  louder  tone : 
"Tut-tut,  tut-tut,  tut-tut!"  This  good  man, 
who  would  certainly  have  been  tempted  to  join 
the  Pharisees  in  stoning  the  woman  taken  in 
adultery,  was  rigorous  to  the  same  degree  in  other 
matters  only  when  unorthodox  sentiments  in 
questions  of  faith  were  concerned.  When  the 
discussion  dealt  neither  with  immorality  nor 
dogma  he  never  interfered.  Cautious  himself  in 
every  word  he  uttered,  the  fact  that  others  were 
less  so  seemed  gratifying  to  him.  All  these  natures 
possessed  a  certain  quantity  of  common  salt. 
There  was  a  retired  judge  of  a  crabbed  disposition, 
who  was  always  ready  with  Epsom  salts,  and  a 


1 8  The  Sinner 

tall,  lank,  yellow,  and  frowning  old  man,  who  was 
a  regular  visitor  and  was  always  accompanied  by 
his  tall,  lank,  yellow  and  melancholy  wife,  and  who 
never  spoke  without  scattering  a  few  drops  of  acid. 

That  night  the  crucible  of  the  Casa  Scremin 
chemists  contained  the  flower  of  the  world  of 
fashion,  the  very  Olympus  of  the  little  town.  To 
subject  that  Olympus  to  the  action  of  acids  and 
salts  gave  them  the  greatest  possible  delight. 
These  honest,  middle-class  mongrels  had  little 
respect  for  the  formidable  beast  that  sprawled 
upon  the  escutcheon  of  the  house  of  Scremin. 
Marchesa  Nene  herself  did  not  appear  to  hold  the 
beast  in  any  great  consideration,  and  Marchese 
Zaneto,  who  was  affable  and  meek  with  all,  skil- 
fully concealed  the  affection  with  which  he  did 
indeed  regard  it.  The  noble  couple  belonged  to  a 
gloomy,  heavy,  melancholy  group  of  reactionary 
nobles,  between  whom  and  the  Olympus  of  bril- 
liant receptions,  balls,  picnics,  lawn  tennis  and 
skating,  the  relations  were  strained  and  cold. 

A  jovial  priest,  who  was  extremely  inquisitive 
and  an  eager  tale-bearer,  had  no  sooner  entered 
the  room  than  he  imparted  a  delicious  bit  of  news. 

" So  there  is  to  be  no  picnic  after  all!" 

The  sour  man  and  the  salty  man,  who  always 
joyously  seized  an  opportunity  to  attack  the 
priest,  at  once  exclaimed: 

"  That  is  stale  news!  Stale  news!  You  are  too 
late,  too  late!" 

The   priest,    astonished,    vexed   and   very  red, 


Concerning  an  Egg  19 

maintained  that  the  resolution  to  give  up  the 
project  had  been  formed  only  three  hours  before, 
at  six  o'clock,  upon  which  his  persevering  tor- 
mentors retorted  that  the  matter  had  been  dis- 
cussed at  the  cafe  at  half-past  six,  and  that  the 
idea  of  a  picnic  had  been  abandoned  on  account  of 
the  strangers  at  Villa  Diedo. 

"That  proves  you  know  nothing  about  it!"  the 
priest  cried  exultingly.  He  had  another  version  of 
the  story,  "  and  it  is  the  true  version,"  he  declared. 
An  amphibious  gentlewoman,  all  church  in  the 
morning  and  all  Olympus  in  the  evening,  had  told 
the  tale  to  her  husband  in  the  presence  of  the 
family  physician,  which  physician,  being  a  friend 
of  the  priest,  and  having  run  across  him  soon 
afterwards,  had  said  to  him:  "Are  you  going  to 
Casa  Scremin  to-night?  Then  tell  this  piece  of 
news  there."  And  the  priest  began  his  story 
solemnly  and  in  choice  language. 

"You  must  know  that  out  of  respect  for  the 
Lenten  season  some  of  the  ladies  had  made  it  a  con- 
dition that  the  picnic  should  take  place  on  a 
Sunday." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  nonsense!"  grumbled  the 
sour  man. 

The  others  said  "  Hush!"  and  the  priest  retorted 
in  dialect: 

"You  need  n't  if  you  don't  want  to!"  and  then 
at  once  mounted  his  Italian  pulpit  again,  a  pulpit 
which  was  indeed  somewhat  disjointed  and  rather 
slippery. 


20  The  Sinner 

"  Well  they  chose  Sunday — next  Sunday.  Mean- 
while it  happened  that  Pittimela,  you  know  who 
he  is,  met  the  Zigiottis,  husband  and  wife,  while 
out  walking,  and — fool  that  he  is — invited  them 
to  the  picnic !  Just  fancy  the  Zigiottis !  Of  course 
they  were  delighted,  delighted!  The  news  spread 
rapidly,  and  the  storm  broke.  Every  one  was 
opposed  to  the  Zigiottis'  coming,  especially  the 
ladies.  They  bestowed  a  long  string  of  titles 
upon  Pittimela,  but  what  was  to  be  done?  The 
patrons  and  managers  of  the  picnic  inquired  of 
one  another — 'What  is  to  be  done?'  One  of  the 
ladies  said:  'We  must  give  Pittimela  to  under- 
stand that  as  he  has  cooked  this  dish  he  must  eat 
it  himself,  and  find  a  means  of  relieving  us.'  A 
second  said:  'We  must  drop  Pittimela  also!'  An- 
other said:  'We  must  drop  the  whole  thing!'  A 
fourth  said  nothing,  but  promptly  fell  ill." 

"Excellent!"  exclaimed  the  bitter  man.  "We 
can  easily  guess  who  that  was!" 

"A  certain  lady —       '  said  the  acid  man. 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,"  the  priest  declared. 

"  My  good  fellow,  as  if  every  one  was  not  aware 
that  her  husband  and  that  Zigiotti  woman — 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  piped  Marchese  Zaneto  hastily. 
"  Go  on,  Don  Serafino."  And  the  priest  continued. 

"  The  patrons  were  in  despair,  and  did  not  know 
which  way  to  turn.  However,  this  morning  every- 
thing seemed  to  have  been  arranged  satisfactorily, 
for  at  three  o'clock  a  deputation  went  to  Villa 
Diedo  to  invite  the  Dessails." 


Concerning  an  Egg  21 

"The  Dessalles!"  some  one  corrected. 

"Well,  well!  de  sal,  de  pevere,  salt  or  pepper,  or 
whatever  it  is." 

At  mention  of  the  Dessalles — the  strangers  of 
Villa  Diedo — the  sour  man  who  had  designated 
them  as  guilty  of  having  brought  about  che 
catastrophe  and  had  been  contradicted  by  the 
priest,  began  to  draw  his  mouth,  his  nose,  and  all 
the  muscles  of  his  wizened  face  into  the  most  dole- 
ful and  fantastic  grimaces.  Don  Serafmo  glanced 
at  him,  and  before  he  had  time  to  open  his  mouth, 
said:  "You  wait!" 

"  I  was  not  going  to  say  anything,  confound  it ! " 

The  priest  continued: 

"As  ill-luck  would  have  it  the  Dessalles  were 
expecting  friends  from  Venice  on  Sunday." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?  What  did  I  tell  you?" 
grumbled  the  man  who  had  not  been  going  to  say 
anything. 

While  Don  Serafino  was  relating  how,  owing  to 
the  Dessalles'  refusal,  opinions  had  become  divided 
as  to  whether  the  picnic  should  or  should  not  take 
place,  the  sour  man  and  the  bitter  man  kept  in- 
terrupting him  in  tones  that  grew  ever  louder: 
"What  did  I  tell  you?  What  did  I  tell  you?" 
while  a  few  more  "What  did  I  tell  yous?"  burst 
forth  in  more  subdued  tones  here  and  there  among 
the  audience. 

For  a  time  the  priest  struggled  on,  but  finally 
being  quite  out  of  patience  ended  by  saying 
mildly : 


22  The  Sinner 

" Pazienza!  Patience!  Patience!"  Then  de- 
scending from  his  Italian  pulpit,  he  roared  in 
dialect : 

"Bless  my  soul!  Can't  you  let  me  have  my 
say?" 

"Hush,  hush!  Be  calm,  be  calm!"  cried 
Zaneto. 

But  when  the  priest,  as  red  as  a  lobster,  barked 
out  that  they  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it,  that  the 
Dessalles'  refusal  had  once  more  brought  up  the 
discussion  concerning  the  Zigiottis,  that  it  was  on 
account  of  that  Zigiotti  woman  that  they  had 
"pulled  and  haggled  until  the  whole  thing  had 
fallen  through,"  then  the  others  barked  out  in 
reply  that  if  the  Dessalles  had  not  refused,  the 
Zigiotti  question  would  never  have  been  brought 
forward  again,  and  they  all  barked  so  loudly  that 
Zaneto  gave  the  rudder  a  great  jerk,  and  turned 
the  conversation  towards  the  nose  of  Signor 
Carlino  Dessalle. 

"  I  have  only  seen  him  once,  but  what  a  mon- 
strous nose!" 

"Don't  criticise  it,  Marchese!"  the  sour  man 
exclaimed.  "  Everything  must  be  perfect  at  Casa 
Dessalle,  even  the  noses.  Strangers,  Marchese, 
people  who  entertain,  people  who  spend  money, 
my  dear  sir!  Let  us  worship  them,  let  us  flatter 
them,  let  us  pet  them,  let  us  go  into  raptures  and 
ecstasies!  How  distinguished  they  are,  how 
amiable,  how  kind!  What  wit,  what  beauty  is 
theirs!  You,  Marchese,  criticise  his  nose,  but  I 


Concerning  an  Egg  23 

am  willing  to  wager  that  here  they  are  ready  to 
admire  even  her  nose!" 

"Peuh/"  ejaculated  Don  Serafmo,  as  if  he 
thought  this  second  nose  had,  after  all,  very  little 
that  was  hideous  about  it. 

"  It  is  indeed  so,  my  friend !  Listen  to  him,  Mar- 
chese!  Even  the  clergy!  Even  the  clergy  are 
losing  their  heads  in  this  matter,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  these  people  do  not  go  to  Mass!  They 
are  people  without  religion,  the  sort  we  call  pamois 
hereabouts!" 

This  word  pamdio,  which,  in  the  local  dialect, 
is  used  to  designate  both  a  sort  of  broth  and  a 
person  of  doubtful  orthodoxy,  perhaps  because  of 
the  weak  and  colourless  aspect  and  the  scanty 
nourishment  contained  in  such  a  broth  and  in  such 
a  creed,  caused  another  outburst  of  indignation. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  What  do  I  care 
if  they  are  pamdi  or  not?  What  has  pamoi  got 
to  do  with  noses  anyway?"  shouted  the  priest. 

The  bilious  censor  roared:  "Yes,  sir!  Yes,  sir! 
Pamois  I  say!  He  and  she  both!" 

The  by-standers  wore  laughing  and  urging  them 
on.  Zaneto,  half  amused  and  half  annoyed  at 
the  failure  of  his  stratagem,  was  trying  to  pacify 
them.  While  the  fray  was  going  on  a  highly 
obsequious  gentleman  seated  beside  the  Marchesa, 
inquired  her  opinion  of  the  matter  in  an  undertone. 
The  Marchesa,  who  was  knitting,  replied  without 
raising  her  eyes  from  her  needles:  "I  am  not 
going  to  worry  myself  about  it." 


24  The  Sinner 

Indeed  the  old  lady  never  worried  herself  about 
anything  that  was  none  of  her  business.  At  least 
this  was  apparently  the  case,  for  at  the  very 
bottom  of  her  nature  there  were  many  secret 
and  tightly  closed  cells,  where  she  kept  all  the 
notes  she  had  silently  made  concerning  many 
things  which,  at  the  time,  she  had  not  seemed  to 
heed,  together  with  the  intricate  threads  of  shad- 
owy plans  for  the  good  of  this  or  that  person  in 
some  future  and  ill-defined  circumstance;  all  the 
likes  and  dislikes  to  which  she  had  never  confessed ; 
her  judgments  of  men  and  things,  which,  though 
hidden,  were  as  hard  and  inflexible  as  bronze ;  her 
opinions,  of  which  some  were  logical  and  others 
distorted,  and  which  from  time  to  time  would 
lend  unexpected  colouring  to  her  more  intimate 
conversation,  a  colouring  that  had  nothing  in 
common  with  those  hackneyed  phrases  with  which 
her  tongue  was  well  supplied.  She  was,  more- 
over, much  out  of  sorts  that  night,  and  Marchese 
Zenato,  his  conscience  still  dripping  with  the 
forbidden  egg  he  had  thoughtlessly  appropriated 
in  the  kitchen,  seized  the  opportunity  while  the 
others  were  too  deeply  engrossed  in  their  quarrel 
over  the  Dessalles'  noses  to  notice,  of  approach- 
ing his  spouse  and  making  certain  contrite 
grimaces,  which  only  served  to  irritate  her  still 
more. 

"There,  there!  Let  me  alone,  do!"  said  she 
sharply.  "  Don't  be  foolish.  " 

The  poor  man  turned  with  a  crestfallen  air  to 


Concerning  an  Egg  25 

Don  Serafmo,  who  was  warmly  answering  one  who 
had  interrupted  him. 

"Abraham?  What  in  the  world  is  he  dragging 
Abraham  into  it  for?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  the  other  retorted,  "Not  Abra- 
ham and  Rebecca,  but  Sarah!  That  is  how  it  is." 

As  the  Dessalles  had  proclaimed  themselves 
brother  and  sister  this  was  a  delicate  insinuation 
that  perhaps  some  Pharaoh  might  have  told  a 
different  tale  about  their  relationship.  Several 
voices  protested.  Both  in  Rome  and  Venice  the 
Dessalles  were  well  known  as  brother  and  sister; 
they  were  the  orphans  of  a  very  wealthy  banker 
of  Marseilles  who  had  married  a  Guglielmucci  of 
Rome.  Don  Serafino  declared  that  whether  they 
were  pamois  or  not  it  was  nevertheless  a  fact  that 
they  had  invited  their  parish  priest  to  dinner,  and 
that  they  gave  him  large  sums  for  the  poor.  The 
lady  had,  moreover,  offered  him  something  for  the 
church. 

"Of  course,  she  is  a  saint!"  muttered  the  sour 
man  with  a  smile  full  of  hidden  meanings. 

"After  all,  we  don't  know  anything  about  her," 
Don  Serafino  exclaimed. 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  her!"  the 
other  retorted,  but  stopped  here,  for  fear  of 
Zaneto's  "tut,  tut,  tut!" 

"And  to  think  she  must  be  at  least  thirty!" 
the  bitter  one  murmured  MS  a  sort  of  epilogue  to 
unspoken  words. 

At  that  a  brisk  fire  of  exclamations  burst  forth 


26  The  Sinner 

on  all  sides.  "Thirty,  indeed:  Thirty  indeed!" 
"Twenty-five!"  "Twenty-two!" 

Then  the  sour  man  rallied  to  the  side  of  the 
bitter  individual. 

"Yes,  yes!  Not  more  than  eleven,  or  perhaps 
only  ten!" 


When  the  clock  struck  eleven  the  entire  com- 
pany poured  out  of  the  drawing-room  upon  the 
stairs.  In  the  vestibule  of  the  palace  they  began 
to  speculate  in  whispers  upon  the  Marchesa's 
gloomy  looks.  What  "the  deuce"  could  be  the 
matter?  Hardly  had  the  bevy  of  guests  reached 
the  street  when  they  were  joined  by  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  family,  who  had  loitered  on  the  stairs 
with  Federico  for  the  purpose  of  worming  the 
secret  of  the  long  face  out  of  him.  He  now  came 
running  towards  the  others,  chuckling  behind  his 
turned  up  coat  collar,  rubbing  his  hands  and 
repeating  to  himself:  "Splendid,  splendid,  splen- 
did!" In  a  flash  they  had  surrounded  him,  and 
then  all  feasted  delightedly  upon  the  famous  egg, 
all  echoed  his,  "Splendid!  Splendid!"  all,  that  is, 
save  Don  Serafino,  who,  as  this  was  a  very  delicate 
matter,  only  laughed  discreetly  and  muttered: 
"Poor  woman!  Poor  woman!"  in  a  tone  of 
gentle  commiseration.  After  the  Marchesa's  long 
face  it  was  the  turn  of  the  lamp.  "  What  a  smell 
of  petroleum!  It  was  really  shameful!"  "And 
the  coffee!"  Don  Serafino  cried.  "Was  it  not 


Concerning  an  Egg  27 

simply  dirty  water  to-night?"  All  the  friends 
echoed  this  sentiment  save  the  sour  man,  who 
maintained  that  it  had  been  pure  water! 

The  priest  told  how,  in  former  days,  he  had  once 
complained  to  Federico,  but  Federico  had  excused 
himself  by  accusing  his  mistress.  "  It  is  her  sordid 
avarice,  sir,"  he  had  said.  Every  month,  after  pay- 
ing the  grocer's  bill,  the  mistress  would  repair 
to  the  kitchen  and  lecture  the  servants  about  the 
coffee,  that  was  always  too  strong.  Having  thus 
shown  their  gratitude  for  the  hospitality  of  Casa 
Scremin,  where  these  humble  burghers  had  for 
many  years  revelled  in  an  odour  and  a  flavour  of 
mastery  over  the  noble  house  which  was  ex- 
tremely flattering  to  their  democratic  senses,  the 
company  broke  up  beneath  a  street-lamp  situated 
where  several  ways  met,  and  its  members  quickly 
dispersed  down  three  or  four  deserted  streets. 
On  one  hand,  the  sour  man  had  returned  to  the 
Dessalle  question,  and  was  holding  forth  with  all 
the  harshness  of  indignant  virtue,  uttering  things 
which  might  well  have  horrified  four  Zanetos,  and 
made  even  the  venerable  metopes  gazing  down 
into  the  street  from  the  Palladino's  cornices,  ex- 
claim, "Tut,  tut,  tut!"  On  the  other  hand,  the 
egg  was  being  beaten  up  once  more  with  whisper- 
ings and  subdued  laughter,  and  once  more  Zaneto's 
withdrawal  from  the  Confraternity  of  the  Cathedral 
was  commented  upon.  Then  they  performed  an 
autopsy  upon  their  old  friend  in  search  of  the 
ulcus  senatorium,  while  the  bitter  man  kept 


28  The  Sinner 

repeating,  "  Worldliness !  Worldliness!  They  are 
all  alike!" 

"By  Jove!"  cried  another,  "an  egg  in  the  fore- 
noon during  Lent!  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
he  turned  Turk  next!" 

Then  certain  premises  Zaneto  had  made  to  the 
deputy  of  the  borough  were  brought  forward  for 
discussion.  Just  fancy!  Zaneto,  who  had  never 
been  to  the  poles  since  1870!  They  also  alluded 
to  steps  the  same  deputy  had  taken  on  the  Mar- 
chese's  behalf  to  obtain  the  support  of  a  Roman 
gentlewoman,  who  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
two  ministers. 

"Do  you  hear  that?"  somebody  said.  "On 
terms  of  intimacy  with  two!  Fancy  what  a  vir- 
tuous gentlewoman  she  must  be!  I  should  think 
he  would  have  to  cry,  'Tut,  tut,  tut!" 

A  certain  local  potentate  was  mentioned  in 
discreet  language,  a  politician  autonomastically 
called  the  under-sized  Commendatore. 

"Yes,  but  if  that  little  chap  does  not  help 
him- 

Down  a  third  lane  Don  Serafino  was  trotting 
towards  his  humble  nest  in  company  of  one  who 
had  built  his  nest  in  the  same  locality.  These  two 
were  also  diligently  beating  up  the  egg,  but  they 
did  so  with  much  gentleness.  They  were  imag- 
ining Zaneto 's  remorse  at  having  given  such  great 
scandal.  "For  indeed  he  is  a  truly  holy  man!" 
said  the  priest.  "I  know  that  for  a  fact."  And 
then  he  related  to  his  friends  acts  of  self-denial 


Concerning  an  Egg  29 

which  Marchese  Scremin  had  performed  in  secret. 
It  was  true  his  desire  to  become  a  senator  was 
always  gnawing  at  his  heart  like  a  worm,  and, 
certainly,  it  was  a  most  baneful  worm.  In  low 
tones  Don  Serafino  was  minutely  examining  this 
ambition  and  its  unfortunate  results,  when,  at 
the  corner  of  a  street,  his  companion  interrupted 
him  by  a  touch  of  his  elbow.  In  turning  the 
corner  he  had  brushed  against  a  gentleman  who, 
lost  in  thought,  was  going  in  the  opposite  direction, 
walking  slowly  with  his  hands  in  his  overcoat 
pockets. 

"  Did  you  see  the  Councillor? "  he  inquired  when 
they  had  gone  on  a  few  steps. 

"  No.     Which  Councillor?"  Don  Serafino  asked. 

"Why,  Maironi,  of  course." 

"Maironi!  At  this  hour?  In  this  part  of  the 
town?  Where  can  he  have  been?  He  is  never 
seen  at  the  receptions  any  more.  Many  think  he 
has  grown  more  absent-minded  and  melancholy 
than  ever.  He  goes  to  Mass  every  morning,  to 
the  evening  service  every  night,  and  to  the  Sac- 
raments once  a  week.  He  always  was  pious,  but 
never  before  to  such  an  extent.  And  as  to  charity 
—his  charities  are  endless!  I  know  that  for  a 
fact.  Of  course  he  has  had  a  great  sorrow,  but, 
after  all,  that  is  nothing  new.  It  all  happened 
four  years  ago." 

"No,  it  cannot  be  that.  He  is  a  fine  young 
fellow,  but  there  is  no  denying  he  is  eccentric. 
Blood  is  thicker  than  water  after  all,  and  they  say 


30  The  Sinner 

his  mother  was  hot-headed,  and  as  to  his  father 
.  heleoli!  But  his  virtues  are  great,  never- 
theless. A  real  saint,  indeed.  Such  faith,  such 
charity!  And  then  such  devotion  to  the  cause! 
He  is  an  honest,  thoroughgoing  clerical,  you  see, 
for,  inter  nos,  there  are  plenty  of  wire-pullers  in  our 
party.  There  are  those  who  are  always  straining 
after  the  money-bags,  and  those  who  simply  want 
to  create  a  sensation,  to  make  a  name  for  them- 
selves and  acquire  power.  Such  are  few  in  num- 
ber, but  unfortunately,  they  exist.  He  is  not 
that  sort,  no  indeed.  And  how  talented  he  is! 
So  extremely  talented!" — Here  Don  Serafino  sud- 
denly stopped  short,  took  out  his  snuff-box,  and 
dipping  two  ringers  into  the  snuff,  said  with  an  air 
of  great  importance:  "I  must  tell  you  we  are 
about  to  make  him  mayor!" 


in 


Meanwhile  the  absent-minded  gentleman  was 
walking  wearily  towards  Palazzo  Scremin.  He 
found  the  great  front-door  closed,  and  the  gas 
had  been  put  out  in  the  vestibule  and  on  the  stairs. 
He  entered  his  own  apartment  on  the  first  floor, 
opposite  the  one  occupied  by  the  Scremins.  He 
was  removing  his  overcoat  in  the  anteroom  when 
some  one  knocked  softly  at  the  door.  He  opened 
it.  There  stood  the  Marchesa  Nene's  young  maid, 
a  tall,  slender,  light  complexioned  girl,  clad  in  a 
dark  dress,  her  hair  falling  in  curls  on  her  fore- 


Concerning  an  Egg  31 

head.  He  turned  pale,  and,  still  holding  the  door- 
handle, inquired  what  she  wanted.  The  girl, 
who  was  also  pale,  fixed  her  fine  blue  eyes  upon 
him,  eyes  in  which,  behind  a  veil  of  tenderness, 
there  lurked  a  certain  boldness. 

"One  moment,"  said  she,  'I  have  a  message." 
She  threw  a  rapid  glance  over  her  shoulder,  and 
repeated:  "I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Her  voice,  though  slightly  hoarse  and  thick,  was 
nevertheless  musical. 

The  young  man  hesitated  a  moment,  then  mur- 
mured, "Come  in,"  and  drew  aside. 

As  the  little  maid  brushed  past  him  he  was 
conscious  of  that  warm  perfume  that  emanates 
from  the  hair  of  the  young,  and  from  a  wholesome 
body,  and  he  heard  her  whisper  a  "Thank  you" 
laden  with  meaning  as  she  took  his  overcoat,  hung 
it  up  with  slow  movements,  and  smoothed  it  with 
light  touches  of  her  hands,  which,  though  not 
white,  were  small  and  slender.  The  little  lamp 
that  was  burning  on  the  consolle  opposite  the  cloak- 
stand,  gilded  her  magnificent  hair,  which  was 
twisted  in  her  neck  like  a  knot  of  serpents. 

"The  gardener  has  been  here,"  said  she,  still 
caressing  the  overcoat  and  speaking  softly,  almost 
tenderly,  as  if  the  words  had  belonged  more  to  the 
coat  and  to  her  caresses  than  to  the  listener.  "  The 
gardener  who  left." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  no  answer,  and 
her  hands  seemed  to  move  uncertainly,  aimlessly. 
Then  the  young  man  said:  "What—  '  in  a 


32  The  Sinner 

voice  that  was  not  his  own,  and  did  not  finish  his 
question.  She  stooped  to  pick  up  who  knows 
what,  and,  as  she  did  so,  he  caught  the  flash  of 
her  slender  white  neck. 

"  He  says,"  she  went  on  still  more  softly,  "  that 
he  may  get  a  position  with  the  Signori  Dessalle, 
and  that  they  will  surely  ask  my  Marchesa  for  a 
recommendation,  and  would  you  perhaps  be  so 
kind  as  to  speak  a  good  word  for  him?  He  says 
also  that  you  are  to  be  made  mayor,  and  that  he 
hopes  you  will  remember  his  son,  and  get  him  a 
place  in  the  library." 

She  faced  about,  glanced  at  the  lamp  that  was 
smoking,  moved  very  slowly  forward  on  her  way 
to  turn  it  down,  and,  as  she  passed  Maironi,  raised 
her  great  eyes  to  his  face.  They  had  a  glassy 
look,  and  were  full  of  an  outspoken  proposal.  He 
shuddered,  but  said  nothing.  Very  slowly  the 
little  fair-haired  maid  began  to  lower  the  wick. 
It  sank  steadily  lower  and  lower  until  the  light 
had  almost  disappeared.  Then  Maironi  exclaimed 
sharply. 

"The  Signora  is  ringing  for  you!" 

"She  is  ringing?"  the  girl  started,  raised  the 
wick,  looked  the  young  man  in  the  face,  and  saw 
at  once  that  she  had  gone  too  far. 

"  If  the  man  returns,"  Maironi  went  on,  "  you  can 
tell  him  I  will  give  the  desired  recommendation." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  girl  sharply,  and  walked 
away,  stiff  and  serious,  without  so  much  as  a 
salutation  or  a  glance. 


Concerning  an  Egg  33 

When  he  was  alone  the  young  man  pressed  his 
clenched  fists  to  his  temples,  then  struck  them 
violently  upon  the  top  of  the  consolle,  letting  them 
rest  there  a  moment  while  he,  panting,  stared  at 
himself  in  the  glass  as  if  questioning  his  own 
reflection.  Then  suddenly,  as  if  terrified  by  his 
own  face,  his  own  expression,  his  own  thoughts, 
he  blew  out  the  lamp  with  violence,  and  entered 
his  bedroom  in  the  dark,  flinging  himself  upon  his 
knees  in  the  slanting  ray  of  grey  light  which  the 
nocturnal  sky  cast  across  the  rug  on  the  floor, 
clasping  his  hands  despairingly  as  he  gazed  up  at 
the  dimly  luminous  clouds. 

After  a  few  seconds  he  gradually  lowered  his 
eyes  to  the  window-sill,  to  the  shadow,  and  they 
became  fixed  as  though  beholding  a  vision.  His 
will  power  suspended,  neither  acquiescing  in  nor 
resisting  these  imaginings,  he  seemed  to  be  behold- 
ing things  that  took  his  breath  away.  He  roused 
himself,  flung  himself  forward,  pressing  his  face 
against  the  floor.  Presently  he  started  to  his 
feet,  lighted  a  candle,  and,  baring  his  right  arm, 
held  it  several  times  above  the  flame,  his  fist 
tightly  clenched.  Then  he  looked  at  the  great 
red  burns,  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  took  out  his 
portfolio,  opened  it,  and  fell  to  studying  a  small, 
oval  photograph  it  contained.  It  was  the  portrait 
of  a  young  girl  of  about  eighteen,  whose  features 
were  regular,  but  whose  face  wore  a  cold  ex- 
presson,  although  the  eyes  were  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  gentle  melancholy,  and  there  were  un- 


34  The  Sinner 

mistakable  signs  of  firmness  about  the  chin.  The 
hair  dressed  very  high,  as  had  been  the  fashion 
five  or  six  years  before,  spoilt  the  face,  which 
seemed  to  be  looking  out  from  beneath  an  awkward 
circumflex  accent,  and  suggested  some  one  who 
was  dead.  The  young  man  carried  the  portrait 
to  his  lips,  but,  filled  with  a  sense  of  his  unworthi- 
ness,  had  not  the  heart  to  kiss  it,  and  laying  the 
portfolio  down  on  the  pedestal  with  a  sigh,  he 
noticed  for  the  first  time  a  little  bunch  of  violets 
resting  upon  a  letter. 

His  thoughts  flew  to  the  Tuscan  maid.  Perhaps 
it  was  she  who  had  written,  who  had  offered  the 
flowers.  Neither  eagerly  nor  reluctantly  he 
stretched  out  his  hand,  lifted  the  violets  from 
the  letter,  and  then  paused,  his  hand  still  raised, 
overwhelmed  with  bitter  shame. 

It  was  not  a  letter,  but  a  card,  which  bore  only 
two  words  in  Marchesa  Nene's  hand: 
"MARCH  17" 

Piero  Maironi  and  Elisa  Scremin,  who  had  given 
him  the  portfolio,  had  become  engaged  on  the 
seventeenth  of  March,  188,2,  and  every  year 
Marchesa  Nene  had  thus  delicately,  poetically, 
and  silently  reminded  her  son-in-law  of  that  once 
happy  day  which  had  now  become  a  day  of 
mourning.  Now  for  the  first  time  the  seventeenth 
of  March  had  passed,  and  he  had  not  remembered 
Not  even  the  violets  had  reminded  him  of  it. 
Good  God!  And  he  had  thought  they  were  from 
the  maid!  Mentally  he  begged  the  venerable  old 


Concerning  an  Egg  35 

lady  to  forgive  him,  but  his  ardour  was  soon  lost 
in  the  heavy  sense  of  discouragement  that  rose 
from  the  depths  of  his  soul.  He  lay  down  without 
praying,  torn  by  conflicting,  shapeless  sentiments ; 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  weakness ;  distressed  because 
he  could  derive  no  comfort  from  his  material 
victory  over  temptation;  he  had  a  dull  sense  of 
anger  against  the  Almighty,  who  was  silent;  he 
was  tortured  by  doubts  as  to  whether  his  struggle 
against  nature  be  not  useless  and  foolish,  as  to 
whether  he  be  not,  after  all,  merely  a  poor  blind 
slave  of  those  moral  and  religious  prejudices  which 
had  been  stamped  by  others  upon  the  tender 
conscience  of  his  childhood,  and  from  which  he 
might  never  be  able  to  escape.  These  doubts 
filled  him  with  terror  and  remorse,  and  were 
followed  by  a  fine  determination  to  fight  bravely 
on.  Then,  when  these  turbulent  emotions  of  the 
soul  had  become  more  calm,  and  drowsiness  had 
begun  to  creep  over  him,  there  arose  once  more 
in  the  inner  darkness  of  his  mind,  a  vision  that 
banished  sleep,  and  grew  ever  more  vivid;  a 
vision  of  the  woman  with  the  glassy,  eloquent, 
burning  eyes,  who  had  offered  herself.  He  drove 
the  voluptuous  picture  from  him,  then  evoked 
it  once  more  only  to  repulse  it  again,  this  time  more 
weakly  than  before.  His  heart  was  beating 
violently,  and  he  felt  as  if  a  thick,  soft  veil  were 
spreading  itself  slowly  above  him,  shutting  out 
heaven.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  liberation, 
of  intoxication  which  seemed  to  rise  from  the  hot 


36  The  Sinner 

earth  of  self-surrender,  of  an  amorous  ecstasy  in 
which  all  his  innermost  being,  a  magnificent,  un- 
tried fund  of  passion,  of  joy,  of  folly,  seemed  to 
burst  forth  from  his  heart,  his  thoughts,  his  senses. 
Varying  forms  flashed  across  his  inner  vision ;  the 
bold,  fair-haired  lady's-maid,  beautiful  Signora 
Dessalle,  with  her  great,  dark  eyes  which  had 
gazed  at  him  so  intently  one  day  when  he  had  met 
her  in  the  train;  and  still  other  forms  appeared, 
which  he  violently  moulded  into  one  shape,  into 
one  being,  creating  them  himself  with  irresistible 
might,  and  by  the  power  of  an  imaginary,  a  magic 
kiss,  pressed  passionately  between  ear  and  neck; 
creating  thus  out  of  the  servant  as  out  of  the  lady, 
the  woman  of  his  desires,  and  animating  with  his 
own  flame  this  being  which  was  come  out  of  him- 
self, and  was  destined  to  be  reabsorbed  into  himself. 
Suddenly  he  sat  up  in  bed.  In  the  silence  of  the 
night,  in  the  tremulous  light  of  the  candle,  even 
the  familiar  objects  about  him  seemed  to  be  watch- 
ing him  in  amazement.  He  rose,  opened  the 
window,  and  drank  in  the  cold,  dark,  and  silent  air. 
The  clock  on  the  city  tower  is  striking:  one, 
two.  Silence.  The  clock  of  the  neighbouring 
church  is  striking :  one,  two.  They  sound  like  sad 
and  weary  voices,  exchanging  a  melancholy,  mon- 
astic greeting:  memento.  Other  solemn  voices 
some  far  away,  others  near  at  hand,  several  in  the 
house  itself  repeat:  one,  two:  memento.  Mechan- 
ically Maironi  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and 
murmured : 


Concerning  an  Egg  37 

"  Et  ne  nos  inducas  in  tentationem  sed  liber  a  nos 
a  malo,  amen." 

He  heard  the  prayer's  echoless  fall  into  the  dull 
and  empty  mystery,  and,  folding  his  hands,  he 
called  out  almost  by  blind  instinct,  to  two  beings 
he  had  never  known,  whom  he  had  pictured  to 
himself  in  an  infinite  number  of  shapes,  whom  he 
had  sometimes  forgotten,  sometimes  longed  for      .,* 
intensely,  beings  bound  to  him  by  the  most  tender 
affection,  but  powerless  to  answer  his  call,  for  they 
were  sleeping  their  last  sleep  in  the  poor  little  J 
churchyard  of  Oria  in  Valsolda :  "  Mother !  Father ! ' ' 

He  remembered  that  he  had  an  important 
letter  to  write  and  determined  to  set  about  it  at 
once.  It  was  a  letter  to  Monsignore  De  Antoni, 
canon  of  the  cathedral,  who  had  called  upon  him 
the  day  before  with  a  secret  mission  from  His 
Excellency  the  Bishop.  The  clerical  majority  in 
the  council,  which  was  the  result  of  the  recent 
elections,  would,  it  appeared,  be  in  danger  of 
death  if  it  did  not  succeed  in  giving  birth  to  the 
young  mayor  it  had  conceived.  This  reluctant 
fruit  of  its  womb  was  Piero  Maironi.  Steps  taken 
to  persuade  him  before  the  election  had  not  led 
to  satisfactory  results ;  Maironi  would  not  hear  of 
accepting,  and  had  declared  as  much  to  Monsignore 
De  Antoni.  The  meek  Monsignore  had  interlarded 
his  protests  with  a  series  of  viscous  exclamations, 
such  as,  "Well,  well!  Yes,  sir!  Yes,  sir!"  He 
had  also  resorted  to  fleeting  smiles,  grimaces  and 
bland  assurances,  such  as,  "  I  see  your  point !  I 


38  The  Sinner 

see  your  point!"  adding  quickly,  "It  shall  be 
done!  It  shall  be  done!"  and  had  thus  obtained 
a  postponement  of  the  final  decision.  Now 
Maironi  was  anxious  to  be  quit  of  the  whole  matter. 
If  he  had  allowed  his  friends  to  nominate  him 
it  had  been  simply  because  he  felt  he  owed  this 
to  his  party,  and  also  because  he  had  an  undefined 
longing  for  excitement  and  work,  but  in  considera- 
tion of  his  ignorance  of  a  mayor's  duties,  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  placed  at  the  head  of  the  communal 
administration  at  a  difficult  moment,  when  his 
inexperience  might  cost  his  party  very  dear,  and 
the  public  still  dearer.  He  was,  moreover,  re- 
luctant to  thus  suddenly  lay  aside  the  cloak  of 
gloom  which  had  enveloped  his  life  for  four  years. 
Perhaps  also,  some  other  element  in  his  friend's 
offer  was  repugnant  to  him,  though  this  he  would 
not  confess  even  to  himself.  So  he  had  come 
home  that  night  fully  determined  to  write  at  once, 
and  put  an  end  to  the  matter. 

While  he  pondered,  pen  in  hand,  upon  the 
language  in  which  to  clothe  his  arguments  that 
they  might  prove  sufficiently  convincing  to  the 
Bishop,  to  whom  Monsignore  De  Antoni  would 
doubtless  show  his  letter;  while  he  was  casting 
about  for  the  words  best  adapted  to  explaining 
the  difficulties,  the  dangers,  the  cares  and  anxieties 
that  would  beset  him  should  he  accept  the  mayor's 
chair,  a  new  thought  flashed  across  his  mind. 
And  what  if  he  did  accept?  What  if  the  diffi- 
culties, the  dangers,  the  cares  and  anxieties, 


Concerning  an  Egg  39 

should  serve  to  banish  these  amorous  and  volup- 
tuous phantoms  which  were  besieging  his  soul? 
What  if  this  thought  had  been  inspired  by  the 
father  and  mother  he  had  but  now  invoked? 
What  if  God  be  secretly  stretching  out  His  hand 
to  him  through  his  friend's  offer  and  the  Bishop's 
insistence?  He  thought  and  thought  until  his 
head  became  quite  confused  with  weariness  and 
sleepiness,  and  he  finally  postponed  his  decision 
until  the  next  morning. 


He  was  still  sleeping  when  Marchese  Zaneto 
cautiously  entered  his  room,  his  face  full  of  regret 
and  his  mouth  of  excuses.  He  explained  that  it 
was  very  necessary  for  him  to  speak  with  his  son- 
in-law,  and  that,  knowing  his  habits  as  he  did,  he 
had  not  reflected  that  he  might  still  be  asleep.  He 
would,  however,  consult  him  at  once,  if  he  should 
not  be  disturbing  his  son-in-law  too  much.  Since 
his  political  success,  his  father-in-law  had  treated 
him  with  a  dignified  and  cold  civility  that  was  most 
irritating  to  Piero,  and  he  was  always  on  the  alert 
to  discover  the  hidden  cause  of  this.  Having 
listened  to  Zaneto's  preamble,  he  said  to 
himself : 

"Now  we  shall  see!"  but  he  answered  aloud: 
"Not  in  the  least!" 

"Very  well,  then,"  Zaneto  began  slowly,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  he  stroked  his 
cheeks  several  times  with  his  left  hand  as  if  to 


40  The  Sinner 

squeeze  out  the  words  that  fell  stickily  from  his 
lips.  "Two  points." 

Having  thus  opened  the  conversation  he  raised 
his  eyes,  not,  however,  to  his  son-in-law's  face, 
and  began  to  speak  more  fluently. 

"  Several  members  of  your  party  have  called 
upon  me.  I  say  your  party  because  my  views 

are  perhaps well,  perhaps  not  quite !  Be 

that  as  it  may,  these  people  wished  to  come  to  an 
understanding  with  me.  Very  worthy  men  they 
are,  I  must  say,  and  men  of  authority.  They 
desired  me  to  persuade  you  to  accept  the  office  of 
mayor.  I  told  them  that  I  could  only  repeat  to 
you  what  they  had  said.  They  declare — 

Here  Zaneto's  voice  underwent  a  change;  he 
affected  the  measured  accents  of  one  who  repeats 
the  words  of  another,  and  wishes  it  to  be  under- 
stood that  the  sentiments  he  is  voicing  are  not  his 
own. 

"They  declare  that  both  your  social  position 
and  the  result  of  the  elections  point  to  you  as  the 
most  available  person;  that  no  other  mayor  but 
you  would  be  possible;  that  if  you  should  not 
accept,  it  would  be  a  public  calamity,  and  so  forth 
and  so  on!" 

Zaneto  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  finally 
glancing  at  his  son-in-law,  he  added  feebly: 

"That  is  all." 

"And  what  do  you  yourself  think?"  Piero 
inquired. 

Zaneto  frowned  slightly,  assumed  the  expression 


Concerning  an  Egg  41 

of  an  embarrassed  Sibyl,  and,  after  a  prolonged 
silence,  answered  in  an  unusually  decided  tone: 

"  Pray,  do  not  press  me!" 

"That  will  not  do!"  said  the  young  man  iron- 
ically, for  he  was  bound  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
this  diplomacy.  "  Why  should  I  not  press  you? " 

Zaneto  made  a  sweeping,  silent  gesture,  raised 
his  right  arm  on  high,  and  smiling  as  if  to  say, 
"To  what  purpose?"  once  more  repeated: 

"Pray,  do  not  press  me." 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  say  outright  that  you  do  not 
approve?"  Piero  exclaimed. 

"  No,"  Zaneto  replied.  "  I  neither  approve  nor 
disapprove.  I  wish  you  to  know  at  once  that 
some  one  else  has  spoken  to  me  on  this  subject, 
begging  me  to  dissuade  you,  but  I  requested  that 
person,  as  I  now  request  you,  not  to  press  me." 

"And  who  may  that  person  have  been?" 

Zaneto  started  and  writhed,  uttering  a  rumbling 
sound  of  protest  that  seemed  to  emanate  from  the 
depths  of  his  being.  His  son-in-law  was  quick 
to  guess. 

"The  Prefect!"  said  he.  "There  is  no  doubt 
about  it!" 

"Steady!  Steady!"  cried  the  disconcerted  Za- 
neto. "  I  have  named  no  one,  nor  do  I  intend  to 
do  so.  However,  many  people  came  yesterday  to 
speak  to  me  about  your  appointment.  The  first 
person  came  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning — an 
individual  who  was  a  stranger  to  me.  '  Who  are 
you? '  said  I.  '  I  play  the  bassoon  in  fa  bemolle,'  he 


42  The    Sinner 

replied.     'Well,  and  what  do  you  want?'     'If  you 
would    only   speak  a  good  word  for  me  to  your 

son-in-law,  who  is  going  to  be  our  mayor he 

might  perhaps  get  me  a  place  in  the  town  band— 
At  noon  another  person  appeared.  He  also 
wanted  your  support.  He  wished  you  to  get  his 
son  into  the  post-office  and  his  mother  into  the 
workhouse.  A  third  petitioner  turned  up  last 
night.  He  declared  that  within  a  few  days  you 
would  be  mayor,  and  that  he  should  then  wish 
to  call  upon  you  to  pay  you  his  respects  and  lay 
before  you  certain  private  requests  of  his  own  at 
the  same  time,  but  his  wardrobe  being  in  a  most 
deplorable  condition,  would  you  kindly  make 
him  a  present  of  a  decent  coat?  You  can  judge 
for  yourself  from  these  specimens  what  sort  of  a 
following  you  will  have." 

Piero  gazed  fixedly  and  silently  at  him,  reading  his 
very  soul,  and,  having  read,  he  changed  the  subject. 

"There  was  something,  else,  I  believe,"   said  he. 

The  Marchese  pretended  to  find  it  difficult  to 
suppress  an  outburst  of  fictitious  mirth. 

"Yes,  something  else,"  said  he.  "Something 
else  sicut  ed  in  quantum!  " 

And  he  proceeded  to  set  forth  the  other  matter, 
though  not  without  being  shaken,  from  time  to 
time,  by  inward  laughter. 

Another  ambassador  of  the  same  stamp  as  those 
who  had  come  with  the  scarf  of  office  in  their 
pockets,  had  knocked  far  more  timidly  and 
secretly  at  Zaneto's  door,  with  the  intention  of 


Concerning  an  Egg  43 

gaining  his  support,  and  of  extorting  money  from 
his  son-in-law  for  the  clerical  newspaper.  Zaneto 
gave  the  message  with  the  same  touches  of  humour 
with  which,  a  moment  before,  he  had  delicately 
flavoured  the  requests  of  the  other  petitioners, 
adding  salt  to  the  already  bitter  dish,  in  the  hope 
of  rendering  it  entirely  unpalatable,  and  this  not 
so  much  from  paternal  anxiety  concerning  the 
money  that  was  menaced,  as  from  the  desire  that 
that  journal,  which,  of  all  others,  was  the  one 
most  obnoxious  at  the  Prefecture,  might  not  re- 
ceive aid  from  a  member  of  his  family. 

"And  now  I  have  done  my  part,"  said  the 
elderly  diplomatist,  rising. 

Maironi  concluded  that  the  interview  was  at  an 
end,  but  he  was  mistaken.  His  father-in-law 
came  to  the  bedside  and  took  his  hand,  saying  in 
an  undertone,  the  expression  of  his  face  com- 
pletely changed:  "Tell  me—  He  now  re- 
strained his  sobs  with  the  same  difficulty  with 
which  he  had  previously  restrained  his  mirth,  but 
finally  succeeded  in  uttering  the  words:  "When 
are  you  going?" 

"As  usual,"  Piero  answered,  also  in  an  under- 
tone. "The  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Do  you  expect  to  see  her?" 

"Why,  no.  You  know  the  director  has  not 
allowed  me  to  see  her  for  some  time." 

Then  Zaneto  began  to  weep  still  more  violently. 
Maironi  knew  the  old  man  was  deeply  attached  to 
his  daughter,  who  was  a  prisoner  in  an  abode  of 


44  The   Sinner 

suffering;  he  knew  that  these  tears  could  not  be 
called  hypocritical.  Nevertheless  his  own  manner 
of  feeling  and  of  expressing  grief  was  so  different 
that  these  noisy  and  violent  demonstrations  of 
Zaneto's  irritated  his  nerves  much  as  the  amia- 
bility of  Sura  Peppina  had  in  former  days 
irritated  his  father.  The  blood  that  now  rushed 
to  his  face  was  indeed  the  honest,  impetuous 
blood  of  poor  Franco. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  groaned  Zaneto,  wiping  his  eyes 
on  a  big  handkerchief  that  was  none  too  white. 

' '  What  is  it  ? "  said  Piero  with  a  shudder.  ' '  What 
is  the  matter  now?" 

"Oh,  a  great  trial!  A  great  trial!  I  must 
make  a  tremendous  sacrifice!" 

Then  followed  more  sobs  and  more  tears;  a 
painful  search  through  all  his  pockets  for  the 
big  handkerchief;  a  tossing  about  of  the  sheets 
which  was  most  annoying  to  Piero;  and  the  final 
discovery  of  the  filthy  rag  under  the  chair,  when 
his  eyes  were  already  dry,  and  Zaneto  had  no  ex- 
cuse for  a  fresh  outburst  of  grief. 

"There  is  no  help  for  it!  I  must  speak  out! 
You  are  aware  that  the  date  upon  which  you  are 
entitled  to  claim  the  marriage  portion  of— 

There  was  a  pause;  his  face  twitched,  but;  finally 
his  will  triumphed. 

"The  time  is  up  next  year.  The  matter  must 
therefore  be  discussed.  I  will  not  attempt  to  hide 
from  you  that  in  my  present  position  the  payment 
of  such  a  large  sum — 


Concerning  an  Egg  45 

Piero  interrupted  him.  What  was  he  worrying 
himself  about?  Never  mind  the  date  and  the 
payment!  He  might  arrange  everything  to  suit 
himself.  Hereupon  the  worthy  Zaneto  embarked 
upon  a  sea  of  confused  words,  and  would  certainly 
never  have  reached  the  shore  again,  had  not  help 
arrived  in  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact  this  request 
for  a  postponement  of  the  payment  of  the  marriage 
portion,  was  simply  a  prelude,  an  introduction, 
as  it  were,  to  a  proposal  to  shift  the  income  tax 
to  his  son-in-law's  shoulders  for  the  future.  Piero 
immediately  perceived  that  the  poor  man  was 
only  reciting,  awkwardly  enough,  a  little  lesson 
that  had  originated,  and  been  developed  and 
arranged  within  that  cold  and  hard  bump  of 
affairs,  that  flourished  in  the  friendly  society  of 
other  bumps  of  a  totally  different  nature,  beneath 
the  grey  tresses  of  Marchesa  Nene. 

"  Do  just  as  you  like!"  he  exclaimed  angrily. 

"Don't  be  impatient!  Pray  don't  te  im- 
patient!" said  poor  Zaneto.  "These  matters 
must  of  course  be  discussed." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch,  started,  and  ex- 
claimed: "Oh!  Oh!"  and  hastened  away,  explain- 
ing that  he  had  promised  to  accompany  Nene  to 
the  Cathedral  for  the  nine  days'  devotion  to  St. 
Joseph. 

After  Zaneto  had  left  Piero  remained  for  a  long 
time  lost  in  thought  and  contemplation  of  the 
deep  impression  his  heavy  father-in-law  had  left 
in  the  easy  chair;  of  the  scandalous  and  shameful 


46  The   Sinner 

rents,  destitute  of  diplomatic  draper}1",  destitute 
of  all  those  studied  arrangements  which  Zaneto 
was  wont  to  affect  when  seeking  to  produce  an 
impression  upon  others  with  a  different  part  of 
himself,  with  the  superior  and  more  respectable 
part.  Then  Piero  dressed  himself,  and  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  Monsignore  De  Antoni: 

"MONSIGNORE, 

"Will  you  kindly  inform  Monsignore  the  Bishop 
that,  should  my  colleagues  really  see  fit  to  summon 
me  to  fill  a  certain  office,  I  shall  accept,  notwithstand- 
ing my  scanty  qualifications  and  my  total  inexperience 
of  public  business.  Tell  him  also  that  I  rely  greatly  on 
his  prayers.  I  beg  you  also,  Monsignore,  to  commend 
me  to  the  Almighty. 

"Your  most  obedient, 

"P.  MAIRONI." 

He  re-read  his  note  and  asked  himself:  "  In  how 
far  am  I  sincere?  In  how  far  am  I  hypocritical?" 

Presently  Federico  came  in  with  a  letter.  "It 
is  sure  to  be  from  some  one  who  plays  the  bassoon 
in  mi,"  thought  Piero.  He  saw  at  once,  however, 
that  he  was  mistaken.  The  envelope  was  of 
parchment  paper,  delicately  scented  with  violet, 
and  bore  only  these  words : — "  Signore  Maironi  " — • 
written  in  a  bold  and  firm  hand.  Who  had 
brought  it  ?  A  footman  belonging  to  the  strangers 
at  Villa  Diedo. 

Piero  opened  the  note  and  read  as  follows: 

"  SIGNORE, — 

"A  certain  Pomato  has  applied  to  us  for  a  position 


Concerning  an  Egg  47 

as  gardener,  and  has  informed  us  that  he  was  for  a 
long  time  in  your  employ.  My  brother  being  absent, 
I  take  the  liberty  of  begging  you  in  his  name  to  give 
us  what  information  you  can  concerning  this  man's 
capability  and  honesty. 

"With  sincere  apologies  for  troubling  you  with 
this  matter, 

"I  am,  yours  very  truly, 

"JEANNE  DESSALLE." 

"P.S. — I  am  at  home  on  Mondays  and  Fridays 
from  five  to  seven  o'clock." 

Federico  inquired  if  there  was  an  answer. 
Maironi  was  silent,  absorbed  in  contemplation  of 
the  two  discreet  and  eloquent  lines  of  the  post- 
script. Two  months  before  he  had  travelled  in 
the  same  compartment  with  a  young  lady  of  most 
distinguished  appearance,  with  very  pronounced 
but  fine  features,  and  great,  intelligent,  soft  eyes, 
that  had  met  his  own  too  often,  and  had  remained 
in  his  heart  for  days  afterwards.  The  lady  had 
left  the  train  when  he  did,  and  in  the  footman 
who  came  forward  to  take  her  bag  he  had  recog- 
nized a  former  servant  of  Casa  Scremin,  who  had 
now  taken  service  with  the  Dessalles.  Once  more 
those  great,  intelligent,  soft  eyes  had  opened  in  his 
heart. 

"An  answer?"  said  he,  still  gazing  at  the 
postscript.  "  No,  not  now."  And  then  when  Fed- 
erico had  already  left  the  room,  he  called  him. 
back,  saying:  "Wait.  There  is  an  answer." 
And  he  wrote: 


48  The   Sinner 

"SlGNORA, 

"It  is  true  that  Pomato  was  in  the  employ  of  my 
father-in-law,  Marchese  Scremin.  I  believe  he  is  a 
skilful  gardener.  I  have  heard  that  he  professes 
socialistic  opinions.  I  am  not  aware  that  the 
Scremins  ever  doubted  his  honesty. 
"Believe  me,  Signora, 

"Yours  very  faithfully, 

"P.  MAIRONI." 

He  handed  the  note  to  Federico  without  re- 
reading it,  and  dismissed  the  poor  fellow  sharply: 
"  There!  Begone! "  as  if  he  feared  to  have  time  to 
repent. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  THE  MONASTERY 

I 

A  MAN-SERVANT  of  the  old  school  ushered 
the  gentleman  who  had  inquired  for  Don 
Giuseppe  into  the  billiard-room. 

"Your  name,  please?"  said  he. 

"Maironi." 

The  servant  went  in  search  of  his  master. 

The  glass  door  that,  by  means  of  five  steps,  leads 
from  the  billiard-room  to  the  garden  of  Villa 
Flores,  stood  open.  The  weak,  April  sun  was 
languishing  upon  the  grey  cover  of  the  billiard- 
table  and  upon  the  light  deal  floor.  The  warm 
air  wafted  in  the  faint  odour  of  the  fine  rain  that 
could  be  seen  trembling  in  the  sunshine,  and  that 
was  veiling  the  distant  landscape  beneath  the  blue 
sky.  The  sloping  field  that  stretches  away  in 
front  of  the  lofty  and  isolated  building,  the  great 
trees  that  seem  drawn  up  in  line  in  expectation 
of  the  passage  of  a  procession  of  princes,  were 
drinking  in  the  sweet,  gentle  rain  without  a 
whisper.  The  empty  house  was  equally  silent. 
In  the  room  itself  the  chairs  standing  against  the 

49 


50  The   Sinner 

walls,  the  few  other  pieces  of  furniture  system- 
atically arranged,  the  covered  billiard-table,  were 
like  so  many  sad,  dead  things,  that  still  retained 
the  memory  of  life. 

The  servant  had  not  yet  returned.  Piero  went 
out  to  the  steps  to  watch  the  gentle  and  silent 
rain,  and  a  faint  odour  of  violets  recalled  to  him 
the  voluptuous  vision  of  the  being  who  now  filled 
his  heart.  He  saw  her  slowly  opening  her  fur- 
cloak,  saw  the  exquisite  lines  of  her  figure,  and 
once  more  inhaled  the  perfume  of  violets,  for  she 
had  worn  a  small  bunch  of  those  dark  flowers  in 
her  belt.  He  felt  the  intelligent  gaze  that  had 
then  sent  a  pang  through  his  breast,  once  more 
penetrating  him,  slowly  invading  his  whole  being. 
"I  cannot  find  him,  sir,"  the  old  servant  was 
saying  behind  him.  "  He  is  neither  in  his  room 
nor  in  the  chapel.  Perhaps  he  is  out  on  the  hill- 
side." And  he  added  that  he  would  go  in  search 
of  his  master.  Maironi  would  not  allow  this,  and 
himself  started  towards  the  low  hill  that  rises 
behind  the  courtyard  of  the  villa,  sloping  gently 
on  the  south  side,  where  it  is  striped  with  rows 
of  grape-vines,  through  which  a  procession  of  thin 
cypresses  cuts  upward,  but  steep  and  wooded  on 
the  western  slope,  and  laced  across  by  strange, 
looping  paths  which  seem  to  bind  it  together  and 
prevent  its  falling.  Piero  saw  the  elderly  priest 
he  was  in  search  of  coming  towards  him  down  one 
of  these  paths.  Don  Giuseppe  Flores,  the  last 
of  his  line,  was  sole  master  of  the  lonely  villa,  of 


In  the  Monastery  51 

the  hill,  of  the  low-lying  fields  where,  in  the  deep 
silence  of  noon,  turkeys  gobbled  and  ducks  and 
geese  quacked,  of  the  clustering  groups  of  foreign 
and  common  trees,  which,  on  that  side  rose  up- 
wards through  the  narrow  glades  and  along  the 
ridges  of  the  hill,  until  they  met  the  topmost  row 
of  vines  growing  high  up  on  the  other  slope. 

Don  Giuseppe  was  descending  with  slow  steps, 
reading  the  while,  and  heedless  of  the  light  and 
infrequent  drops  of  rain.  When  he  raised  his 
eyes  from  his  book  Maironi  saluted  him,  and 
hastened  forward.  At  first  the  old  priest  did  not 
recognise  him,  but  presently  he  uttered  a  joyous 
"Oh!"  and  started  downwards  with  youthful 
vivacity,  his  arms  spread  wide,  grasping  his  hat 
in  one  hand  and  the  book  in  the  other,  while  his 
face  shone  with  astonishment  and  pleasure.  His 
was  indeed  a  noble  face,  in  which  the  manly  lines 
of  the  lower  half,  and  the  great  arch  of  the  nose 
formed,  as  it  were,  a  worthy  completive  to  the 
lofty  language  of  the  broad  and  solemn  brow, 
while  the  dark,  animated,  gently  stern  eyes,  ever 
ready  to  assume  the  hue  of  the  mind's  every  flash, 
every  flame,  every  shadow,  told  of  a  warm,  inward, 
purity,  of  the  hidden  sweetness  of  that  majestic 
language.  Now  those  eyes  were  indeed  sparkling, 
for  Don  Giuseppe  had  known  Franco  and  Luisa, 
Piero's  parents,  in  Valsolda,  where  he  had  been 
visiting  some  relatives  of  his  before  1859,  and  he 
was  always  delighted  to  meet  Piero,  who  reminded 
him  of  those  two  choice  spirits,  of  the  lonely  and 


52  The    Sinner 

poetic  lake,  and  of  the  most  peaceful  days  of  his 
life.  They  seldom  met.  Don  Giuseppe  was  near- 
ing  seventy,  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  absent 
from  the  city  nine  months  of  the  year;  he  had,  at 
one  time,  been  Marchesa  Nene's  confessor  and  a 
frequent  visitor  at  Casa  Scremin,  but  he  seldom 
went  there  now.  He  met  Piero  from  time  to 
time  during  the  winter  at  the  reading-rooms,  or 
outside  the  town- walls,  on  the  lonely  hill-side 
paths. 

"My  dear  Signor  Sindaco!  My  dear  Mayor!" 
he  cried  gaily,  placing  his  hands  affectionately 
upon  the  arms  of  the  young  man  who  stood  before 
him  in  a  respectful  attitude,  smiling  also.  "  What 
a  miracle!  How  has  this  come  about?" 

"  You  have  always  been  so  kind  to  me,  have  so 
often  urged  me  to  come,  that  to-day  I  remembered 
your  invitation.  I  had  a  reason  for  remembering 
it." 

"Well  done,  well  done!"  said  Don  Giuseppe, 
and  it  struck  him  that  they  wanted  something  of 
him  at  the  town-hall,  that  they  wished  perhaps 
to  lay  the  burden  of  some  public  office  upon  him. 
In  silence  he  turned  towards  the  villa  with  his 
guest,  already  planning  excuses  and  a  line  of 
defence,  for  he  was  old  and  weary.  Maironi  also 
strode  along,  preoccupied  and  silent.  Don  Giu- 
seppe was  the  first  to  feel  the  weight  of  this  silence, 
and  inquired  for  news  of  the  Scremins.  Presently 
he  halted,  and  looked  at  Piero  with  an  innocently 
mischievous  smile. 


In  the  Monastery  53 

"Is  it  true,"  he  said,  "what  they  have  been 
telling  me  about  the  Marchese?" 

"  What  have  you  heard?" 

"  That  he  is  soon  to  be  made  senator." 

Piero  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  may  be,"  he  replied.  "I  do  not  know.  I 
should  not,  however,  be  greatly  astonished.  But 
tell  me — am  I  inconveniencing  you?  You  may 
have  wished  to  remain  out  of  doors  a  little 
longer." 

Don  Giuseppe  protested,  and  was  more  firmly 
convinced  than  ever  that  the  Mayor  had  come 
with  a  fixed  purpose.  Near  the  gate  of  the  court- 
yard they  were  obliged  to  pause  and  allow  a  herd 
of  oxen  to  pass,  on  their  way  to  the  drinking- 
troughs. 

"Are  these  some  of  your  subjects?"  said 
Maironi.  "  I  assure  you  they  are  a  hundred  times 
better  than  mine!" 

His  tone  was  so  bitter  that  Don  Giuseppe  ex- 
claimed in  astonishment: 

"  Is  there  some  trouble?  Are  you  in  trouble  at 
the  town-hall?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  Maironi  replied  hastily.  "That 
is  of  no  importance  whatsoever.  I  spoke  thought- 
lessly." 

There  was,  then,  something  else  that  was  of 
importance.  Don  Giuseppe  ushered  his  guest 
into  the  billiard-room,  and  begged  him  to  be 
seated. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Maironi,  still  standing.     "  If 


54  The    Sinner 

you  will  allow  me,  I  should  like  to  consult  you." 
And  as  Don  Giuseppe,  nodding  his  consent,  still 
urged  him  to  be  seated,  he  looked  fixedly  at  him 
for  a  moment  without  answering. 

At  last  the  old  priest  understood. 

"As  you  like,  as  you  like,"  said  he,  and  placing 
a  hand  on  Piero's  arm,  turned  him  towards  the 
door  that  led  into  his  own  small,  damp  and  chilly 
study. 

"  I  must  beg  you  to  pardon  me,"  said  Maironi, 
in  a  low  tone. 

No,  it  could  not  be  an  official  matter.  That 
was  not  Piero  Maironi's  usual  voice. 

"No  one  will  come  in  here?"  he  questioned. 

Don  Giuseppe  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and  said : 

"There." 

He  had  heard  certain  rumours  to  the  effect 
that  the  Scremins'  affairs  were  in  a  somewhat 
unsatisfactory  condition.  Could  it  be  a  com- 
munication on  this  point?  Or  did  it  concern  the 
unhappy  prisoner?  While  he  was  thus  casting 
about  in  his  mind,  Piero  Maironi  sat  beside  him 
on  the  shabby  old  red  sofa,  silent  and  with  bowed 
head. 

"  Don  Giuseppe,"  he  began  at  last,  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  the  venerable  priest  without  turn- 
ing his  face  towards  him.  "  I  have  come  to  you 
as  a  son." 

Don  Giuseppe  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it, 
deeply  moved,  his  lips  working  silently,  while  a 
glow  of  affection  overspread  his  face. 


In  the  Monastery  55 

"  I  feel  the  same  reverence  for  you  that  every 
one  feels :  yes,  yes — let  me  tell  you  so !  But  besides 
that  I  cherish  an  especial  affection  for  you;  why, 
you  are  well  aware.  Now  I  am  in  the  greatest 
need  of  your  help." 

The  face  of  the  saintly  and  humble  priest  flushed 
with  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  I  need  your  help.  I  have  come  to  you  as 
a  son  to  a  father,  but  to  a  father  who  is  also  a 
priest." 

Don  Giuseppe  again  took  his  hand,  and  once 
more  pressed  it  in  silence. 

"  I  warn  you  not  to  be  surprised  at  anything. 
Think  that  I  am  the  penitent  and  you  the  con- 
fessor. First  of  all  I  must  ask  you  a  question: 
Is  it  by  any  manner  of  means  possible,  according 
to  the  laws  of  the  Church,  that  a  married  man 
whose  wife,  though  still  living,  has  been  com- 
pletely and  hopelessly  insane  for  several  years, 
may  obtain  permission  to  enter  a  religious  cor- 
poration?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is  not." 

Maironi  was  silent. 

"  He  may,  however,  withdraw  from  the  world," 
Don  Giuseppe  hastened  to  add.  "  He  may  dwell 
with  God  in  solitude ;  regulate  his  life  according  to 
self-imposed  rules,  and  sanctify  himself." 

The  solemn  brow,  the  serious  eyes,  the  low  and 
gentle  voice  all  breathed  respect  for  the  great 
grief,  the  great  faith  that  appeared  thus  united 
in  the  young  man's  desire. 


56  The   Sinner 

Maironi  answered  in  an  undertone:  "That 
would  not  be  possible." 

During  the  silence  that  followed,  a  forgotten 
word  once  spoken  by  Donna  Luisa  Rigey,  Piero's 
mother,  flashed  across  Don  Giuseppe's  mind.  The 
Maironis,  the  Pasottis,  and  he  himself  on  foot, 
with  Signer  Giacomo  Puttini  on  the  miller's 
donkey,  were  climbing  Monte  Boglia  by  way 
of  Castello.  Near  Muzzaglio,  Don  Franco 
Maironi  had  suddenly  exclaimed:  "Would  not 
this  be  a  beautiful  spot  for  a  monastery?" 
But  Donna  Luisa  had  murmured:  "Far  too 
beautiful  for  useless  beings!"  Then  a  great 
discussion  had  ensued.  And  now,  after  so  many 
years — how  strange  a  thing  is  human  destiny! 
— here  was  Luisa's  son,  who  at  <that  time  was 
still  unborn,  experiencing  the  fascination  of  the 
monastery. 

"  You  probably  do  not  understand  why  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me  to  withdraw  from  the  world 
without  assuming  the  religious  habit,  without 
taking  solemn  vows.  This  is  owing  to  the  con- 
dition of  my  soul.  You  see  I  really  came  to  speak 
to  you  of  my  soul.  I  foresaw  that  concerning  that 
other  matter  you  would  answer  me  as  you  have 
done.  But,  after  all,  it  is  so  hard  to  speak  to  you 
of  my  soul!  Even  I  myself  do  not  understand 
perfectly.  If  I  come  to  one  conclusion  about 
myself,  I  at  once  find  a  reason  for  believing  the 
contrary.  You  must  help  me,  Don  Giuseppe. 
You  see  how  I  am  suffering,  and  you  were 


In  the  Monastery  57 

fond  of  my  dead  father  and  mother,  were  you 
not?" 

As  he  pronounced  these  last  words  a  wan  smile 
crossed  his  face,  a  smile  so  sad  that  it  pierced  Don 
Giuseppe's  heart.  "Yes,  yes,"  said  he.  "I  was 
indeed  fond  of  them."  And  then  he  lapsed  into 
silence  once  more,  his  natural  humility  making  a 
last  stand,  and  causing  him  to  hesitate  about 
offering  advice  and  consolation. 

"Tell  me,"  he  began  at  last,  in  a  low  tone,  his 
face  illumined  with  the  light  of  holy  joy:  "I 
gather  that  this  idea  of  a  religious  life  came  to  you 
through  grief,  but  when  did  it  come  ?  How  did  it 
begin?" 

"  Oh,  Don  Giuseppe !  It  did  not  come  to  me 
through  grief!" 

"No?" 

Maironi's  face,  shaken  by  an  inward  storm, 
became  distorted.  He  still  held  his  voice  in 
check,  but  nevertheless  it  trembled. 

"  No,  Don  Giuseppe,  I  am  a  wretch,  for  I  no 
longer  feel  any  sorrow  for  my  wife's  condition." 

Don  Giuseppe  stared  at  him,  more  terrified  by 
the  distortion  of  his  face  than  by  his  words.  Piero 
repeated  with  laboured  breath  and  in  a  hoarse 
voice:  "  None  at  all!" 

Don  Giuseppe  spread  wide  his  arms. 

"In  that  case ?"  said  he  almost  harshly. 

Maironi  started  to  his  feet,  went  to  the  window 
and  stood  there  a  moment  with  his  back  to  the 
priest,  who  could  see  his  shoulders  heave.  When 


58  The    Sinner 

he  came  back  to  the  sofa  his  face  was  once  more 
composed  and  his  voice  steady. 

"I  must  explain  everything  to  you,"  said  he. 
"Will  you  be  patient  with  me,  Don  Giuseppe?" 

The  old  man  silently  reassured  him,  and  he 
continued : 

"  You  know  how  I  came  to  live  at  Casa  Scremin. 
You  know  also  that  I  was  left  fatherless  almost 
as  soon  as  I  was  born,  for  my  father  died  in  Oria 
in  1860,  in  consequence  of  his  wounds,  and  I  was 
born  in  '59.  You  are  aware  that  my  mother 
died  two  years  later — also  in  Oria — and  that  my 
great-grandmother  Maironi  not  wishing  to  have 
me  in  her  house,  entrusted  me  to  her  relatives, 
the  Scremins.  The  Marchese  is  the  son  of  a 
brother  of  my  great-grandmother.  She  soon  died 
also,  appointing  me  her  heir,  and  placing  me  under 
the  guardianship  of  the  Marchese.  I  believe  that 
from  that  day  forth  the  Scremins  thought  of  me 
as  poor  Elisa's  future  husband.  I  grew  to  man- 
hood in  their  house,  studying,  as  you  know,  with 
Don  Paolo.  I  was  not  free  to  choose  my  own 
friends,  I  associated  ever  with  the  same  people,  and 
imbibed  only  one  set  of  ideas.  I  still  love  that 
worthy  man,  Don  Paolo,  but,  as  a  boy,  I  adored 
him.  How  often  I  determined  to  become  a  priest 
like  him!  The  very  odour  of  the  incense  that 
clung  about  Don  Paolo's  tunic  when  he  came  to 
take  me  out  to  walk  after  service  filled  me  with 
reverence!  And  I  looked  upon  the  priestly  call- 
ing as  almost  a  divine  state.  During  the  services, 


In  the  Monastery  59 

when  the  organ  was  playing,  my  greatest  delight 
was  to  dream  of  Thebais  or  Lebanon,  or  often 
also  of  a  fantastic  monastery  lost  in  the  midst  of 
the  North  Sea.  At  that  same  time — 

Here  Piero  paused. 

"  Pray  consider  this  as  a  confession,"  he  said 
softly  and  then  continued : 

"  It  seems  incredible  that  I,  who  dreamt  of 
monasteries  and  the  religious  life  should,  from 
my  early  boyhood,  even  before  the  moral  sense 
had  developed  in  me,  have  been  subject  to  strange 
attacks  of  sensuality,  a  sensuality  rendered  blind 
and  especially  distressing  by  the  ignorance  in 
which — fortunately  for  me — I  long  remained.  As 
I  had  always  been  deeply  religious  I  cannot  begin 
to  describe  to  you  the  terror  I  experienced  and  the 
many  secrets  act  of  penance  I  performed  when 
my  moral  sense  was  at  last  aroused!  At  one  time, 
after  receiving  the  Sacraments,  I  was  subject  to 
religious  ecstasies  and  indescribable  trances,  and 
I  had  days  when  the  very  thought  of  anything 
impure  was  loathsome  to  me,  so  that  very  soon 
I  began  to  think  seriously  of  entering  a  religious 
Order,  as  the  only  means  of  ridding  myself  of  the 
persecutions  of  the  spirit  of  impurity.  Once  I 
was  taken  to  visit  the  abbey  at  Praglia  in  the 
Euganeian  Hills;  you  are  surely  well  acquainted 
with  the  abbey,  it  must  be  some  six  or  seven 
miles  from  here.  There,  in  the  loggia  of  the  hang- 
ing courtyard,  the  idea  came  to  me  of  becoming  a 
Benedictine.  I  was  fifteen  at  the  time.  I  spoke 


60  The    Sinner 

to  Don  Paolo  of  my  desire,  but  he  told  me  I  was 
too  young  to  think  of  such  things.  From  certain 
vague  words  of  my  confessor  I  inferred  that  the 
conversation  had  been  repeated  to  the  family,  and 
that  they  were  much  opposed  to  my  desire.  In 
fact,  after  that  they  often  sent  me  away  on 
journeys  with  Don  Paolo,  and  sometimes  got  a 
friend  to  take  me  to  the  theatre.  I  was  still  often 
assailed  by  inward  struggles  but,  for  all  that,  I 
held  fast  to  my  purpose.  I  studied  Greek  and 
Latin  eagerly,  and  I  was  thankful  that  my  tutor 
did  not  oblige  me  to  follow  a  regular  course  of 
study,  because,  even  before  I  had  thought  of  be- 
coming a  monk,  I  had  been  greatly  distressed 
upon  learning  that  the  regular  course  could  only 
lead  to  my  becoming  a  lawyer,  a  Government 
official,  a  physician,  an  engineer  or  a  professor. 
I  felt  no  inclination  to  follow  any  of  these  callings, 
and  I  had  believed  there  was  another  path  in  life 
for  me,  so  I  grieved  over  my  disappointment  much 
as  I  grieved  at  not  being  able  to  explain  to  myself 
the  desires  that  distressed  me.  The  idea  of  be- 
coming a  religious  came  as  a  revelation,  and  was 
for  some  time  a  great  relief ;  this  lasted  until  I  was 
about  sixteen.  At  sixteen,  a  consciousness  of 
change  in  myself,  a  consciousness  of  viewing  every- 
thing in  a  different  light,  certain  glances  from 
women's  eyes  that  were  new  to  me,  certain  revela- 
tions of  the  world  and  of  life,  convulsed  my  soul. 
Nevertheless,  in  those  periods  of  indescribable 
agitation,  even  in  those  moments  when  the 


In  the  Monastery  61 

thought  of  the  religious  life  was  abhorrent  to  me, 
the   idea    of   rendering   that   life   impossible    by 
marriage  filled  me  with  inexplicable  terror — yes, 
it  was  real  terror!     Meanwhile  I  held  fast  to  all 
the  outward  forms  of  religion;  to  the  Society  of 
St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  to  the  Association  of  Catholic 
Youths,   and  this  by  instinct,   because  here,   at 
least,  there  was  something  solid.     Years  passed, 
and  I  should  have  begun  to  attend  to  my  affairs, 
but  I  thought  nothing  about  them.     I  saw  that 
my  guardian  had  no  wish  for  me  to  do  so,  and  it 
suited  me  to  humour  him.     I  have  no  love  of 
riches.     I  was  made  much  of  by  the  clerical  party. 
You   are  aware  of  that.     They  made  me  vice- 
president  of  the  Club.     They  gave  me  work  to  do ; 
translations  of  Catholic  writings  from  German  and 
French.     They  often  talked  to  me  of  my  talents, 
of  public  offices  which  I  should  be  called  to  fill, 
of  the  important  part  I  should  take  in  the  Catholic 
movement.     They  enclosed  me  within  their  circle, 
teaching  me  to  regard  all  young  men  who  were  not 
clericals    as    corrupt    and    dangerous,    and    they 
frequently  suggested  marriage  to  me,  with  allusions 
to  my  little  cousin,  who  was  still  away  at  school. 
What  I  did  for  the  Club  I  did  with  indifference. 
The  only  thing  I  took  interest  in  was  a  translation 
from  Ketteler.     I  felt  that  I  might  indeed  become 
enthusiastic  over  the  idea  of  a  Christian-Social 
Legislation,  but  at  the  same  time  I  was  aware 
that    between   the   members    of   my   party   and 
myself  there  was  a  great  want  of  agreement  on 


62  The  Sinner 

many  points,  and  that  really  ex  corda,  common 
action  with  them  would  be  impossible  for  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  only  water  flowed  in  their 
veins — holy-water,  perhaps,  but  very  different 
from  that  blood,  full  of  smouldering  fire,  that  I 
felt  coursing  through  my  own  veins,  and  I  once 
more  lapsed  into  a  sort  of  lethargy,  comforting 
myself  with  the  idle  hope  that  some  unknown 
power  might  develop  within  me.  As  to  marriage 
I  began  to  entertain  the  idea  of  it  much  as  an 
exhausted  swimmer  begins  to  contemplate  giving 
up  the  struggle.  I  was  one-and-twenty  when 
the  Scremins  took  Elisa,  who  was  seventeen,  out  of 
school.  They  then  gave  me  a  small  apartment 
and  a  man-servant  to  myself,  the  Marchese  in- 
forming me  solemnly  that  the  laws  of  propriety 
demanded  this  arrangement,  and  he  spoke  so 
solemnly  that  it  almost  seemed  to  me  they  con- 
sidered me  unworthy  to  aspire  to  my  cousin's 
hand.  I  was  now  apparently  free.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  Marchesa,  by  means  of  those 
gentle  wiles  in  which  she  excels,  kept  me  more  a 
slave  than  ever.  Personally  Elisa  was  pleasing 
to  me;  I  admired  a  certain  enigmatic  something 
in  her  very  coldness  and  reserve,  but  I  liked  her, 
above  all,  because  I  saw  plainly  that  she  liked  me. 
However,  my  eyes  being  at  last  opened  to  the 
manoeuvres  of  both  her  father  and  mother,  I 
was  much  vexed,  and  stood  on  the  defensive, 
for  I  was  not  really  in  love.  While  I  was  in 
this  state  of  mind,  one  night  in  Venice,  I,  who 


In  the  Monasteiy  63 

up  to  that  time  had  kept  myself  materially 
pure " 

Silence. 

"  Pass  that  over!  Pass  it  over! "  Don  Giuseppe 
murmured.  Piero  continued: 

"  The  reaction  of  shame  and  loathing  was  most 
violent.  After  that,  marriage  with  a  girl  so  pure 
and  reserved  as  my  cousin  appeared  to  me  a 
refuge  of  peace.  When  I  married  her  I  believed 
I  was  deeply  in  love.  However,  not  even  to  her 
could  I  relate  what  my  secret  intentions  had  once 
been.  But  I  remember  that  on  the  occasion  of  a 
visit  to  Praglia  we  made  together,  the  fact  of  being 
there  in  the  hanging  courtyard  with  my  wife 
produced  an  extraordinary  impression  upon  me, 
and  she  asked  me  several  times  if  I  was  not  feeling 
well.  Now,  dear  Don  Giuseppe,  I  have  come  to 
something  that  is  most  painful!  It  seems  cow- 
ardly to  tell  certain  things  when— 

Piero  could  not  continue,  could  not  repress  a 
violent  sob. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "  after  the  first  few  days 
I  began  to  be  greatly  disappointed  in  my  wife, 
and  this  for  several  reasons.  For  one  thing,  her 
coldness  was  unconquerable,  notwithstanding  her 
affection.  You  must  forgive  me!  I  may  indeed 
tell  a  father  everything.  She  no  longer  seemed 
to  me  enigmatical ;  her  nature  still  remained  closed 
to  me,  but  I  believed  it  contained  nothing.  I 
took  her  to  Valsolda  to  visit  the  resting-place  of 
my  dead.  I  could  have  wished  her  to  become 


64  The    Sinner 

attached  to  the  town,  to  the  house  that  is  so  dear 
to  me.  But  she  exhibited  only  icy  indifference. 
This  wounded  me  deeply.  -  The  terrible  disease 
began  with  attacks  of  prostration,  seasons  of 
terror,  presentiments  of  evil  and  heart-rending 
paroxysms  of  affection  for  me.  I  cannot  describe 
to  you  the  remorse  I  felt  at  that  time,  how  I 
despised  and  hated  myself!  I  vowed  to  worship 
her  as  a  heavenly  being  should  she  ever  be  restored 
to  health.  I  rebelled  against  sending  her  to  the 
asylum,  but  was  forced  to  yield  because  the 
physicians  gave  me  hope  of  her  recovery  only  on 
that  condition.  God  only  knows  what  I  suffered, 
and  I  placed  great  trust  in  Him!  At  the  end  of  a 
year  the  doctors,  who  up  to  that  time  had  always 
encouraged  me,  began  to  speak  doubtfully, 
gloomily.  The  shock  was  terrible,  but  little  by 
little  it  passed  away.  From  time  to  time  there 
were  periods  of  improvement,  and  this  sufficed  to 
sustain  hope.  Besides,  my  mother-in-law,  poor 
woman,  was  so  confident!  At  first  she  used  to 
speak  of  her  daughter  as  if  she  would  be  well 
the  next  day ;  later  she  ceased  mentioning  her,  but  I 
was  aware  that  she  was  preparing  a  little  lodging 
for  her  in  the  country.  Just  fancy,  she  even  had 
stoves  put  up,  that  the  house  might  be  ready  to 
receive  her  at  any  season,  and  she  collected  there 
certain  pieces  of  old  furniture  that  Elise  had 
loved  as  a  girl.  For  two  years  longer  I  lived  on  in 
this  way,  continually  tossed  between  hope  and 
disappointment.  At  last  a  time  came  when,  in 


In  the  Monastery  65 

thinking  of  my  wife,  I  would  recall  some  act  of 
hers,  some  word  that  had  displeased  me.  I  was 
terrified.  Was  it  possible  that  my  grief  was 
beginning  to  diminish?  I  banished  these  recol- 
lections as  diabolical  temptations.  But  they  per- 
sisted in  returning.  I  struggled  with  all  my 
strength,  praying  myself  and  soliciting  the  prayers 
of  others  more  than  ever,  and  even  carrying  my 
demonstrations  to  excess.  For  instance,  I  arranged 
my  wife's  bedroom  and  dressing-room  exactly  as 
if  she  were  there,  with  all  her  knick-knacks,  her 
perfumes,  and  even  her  wrapper,  spread  out 
ready  upon  her  little  easy-chair.  For  a  short 
time  this  was  a  relief  to  rne,  and  served  to  recall 
the  past,  but  then—  -  I  could  see  the  look  of 
tenderness  in  the  eyes  of  my  parents-in-law.  I 
could  see  the  look  of  pity  in  the  eyes  of  my  friends. 
It  was  an  awful  thing,  because  I  no  longer  suffered, 
I  no  longer  loved;  to  my  horror  I  realised  that  I 
was  a  hypocrite.  Nor  was  this  all.  Before  this 
I  had  never  thought  of  looking  twice  at  any  woman 
because  she  was  beautiful,  but  now — 

The  young  man  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hands,  repeating  that  he  was  determined  to  tell 
everything,  everything!  Presently  he  uncovered 
his  face  and  continued: 

"  One  day — I  was  in  fact  returning  from  the 
place  where  my  wife  is  confined — I  met  a  young 
and  beautiful  woman  in  the  train.  She  must  have 
known  who  I  was.  for  I  at  once  perceived  that  she 
was  examining  me  with  curiosity  and  interest. 


66  The    Sinner 

She  is  the  first  person  who  ever  suspected  the 
truth  about  my  sentiments,  for,  after  glancing 
at  her  two  or  three  times,  I  seemed  to  read  aston- 
ishment and  a  sort  of  inward  amusement  upon 
her  face.  For  some  time  I  could  not  banish  those 
eyes  from  my  memory.  I  became  even  more 
assiduous  in  my  ascetic  practices,  I  prayed  to  God 
for  help,  and  I  finally  believed  I  had  indeed 
forgotten." 

Maironi  had  told  the  latter  part  of  his  story  in 
a  broken  voice,  panting  with  the  effort  of  tearing 
out  of  his  soul  things  that  had  lain  so  tightly 
compressed  within  it.  Don  Giuseppe  listened  to 
him  sadly,  with  the  resigned  air  of  one  whom 
nothing  can  any  longer  astonish,  who  knows  he 
is  listening  to  the  same  eternal,  never-varying 
tale.  Piero  continued: 

"  My  ascetic  fervour  was  of  short  duration. 
And  here  I  must  tell  you  that  it  was  not  while 
I  was  staggering  under  my  load  of  sorrow,  but 
later,  when  my  grief  had  begun  to  diminish,  just 
at  the  time  when  I  was  devoting  myself  most 
assiduously  to  religious  practices,  that  I  began  to 
be  visited  by  strange  thoughts  that  were  quite 
new  to  me,  by  strange  doubts  concerning  religion > 
which  flashed  upon  me  and  shook  me,  and  which, 
though  I  quickly  drove  them  away,  left  me 
trembling.  One  night  my  mother-in-law's  pretty 
young  maid  found  a  pretext  for  coming  to  my 
room.  I  controlled  myself;  my  face  and  my 
words  were  cold,  and  she  withdrew;  but  a  moment 


In  the  Monastery  67 

followed  in  which  I  asked  myself,  if  God  really 
wished  His  creatures  to  be  tortured  thus  why 
He  did  not  make  His  help  more  adequate.  Why 
had  He  allowed  me  to  meet  that  woman  in  the 
train  and  this  girl  here  in  my  mother-in-law's 
house?  I  felt  rebellious;  a  pressing,  gnawing 
question  throbbed  in  my  brain :  What  if  God  did 
not  exist?  What  if  He  did  not  exist?  What  if 
all  my  faith  be  but  a  web  of  illusions  ?  What  if  I 
be  but  the  slave  of  the  prejudices  of  others,  of 
ideas  that  had  been  put  into  my  head  when  I  was 
too  young  to  think?  What  if,  as  regards  religion, 
I  be  but  aping  miserably  those  I  had  always  seen 
about  me?  Oh,  Don  Giuseppe,  Don  Giuseppe! 
You  must  save  me,  you  must  save  me!" 

The  young  man  threw  his  arms  around  the  old 
priest's  neck,  sobbing  bitterly.  Don  Giuseppe  re- 
turned his  embrace  and  whispered  gently— 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  son!  Not  I,  indeed,  but 
the  Lord  will  save  you.  Yes,  yes,  confide  in  Him, 
confide  in  Him!" 

The  servant  knocked  at  the  door  and  announced 
that  coffee  was  ready.  Don  Giuseppe  saw  fit  to 
open  the  door  for  him.  Maironi  regained  control 
of  his  feelings,  and  when  the  servant  had  left  the 
room,  went  on  with  his  story. 

"That  very  night  I  determined  to  accept  the 
office  of  mayor.  At  first  I  had  been  most  reluctant 
to  do  so.  Since  my  great  misfortune  I  had  been 
restrained  by  an  instinctive  sense  of  terror  every 
time  I  had  contemplated  giving  my  empty  life 


68  The  Sinner 

any  fixed  direction,  or  binding  myself  in  any  way. 
I  had  always  felt  that  God  was  reserving  me  for 
something  which  He  had  not  yet  revealed  to  me, 
and  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  take  another  path. 
That  night  I  reflected  that  it  might  be  well  for 
me  to  force  myself  to  think  all  these  new  thoughts, 
to  assume  all  these  new  and  many  responsibilities, 
to  work  hard,  occupying  myself  more  with  the 
affairs  of  others  than  with  my  own.  Think  of 
this:  hardly  had  I  made  up  my  mind  when  a 
letter  was  brought  to  me  from  the  lady  I  had  met 
in  the  train,  asking  for  information  concerning  a 
certain  matter,  and  giving  me  to  understand,  not 
openly,  indeed,  but  covertly,  that  she  wished  me 
to  call  upon  her.  I  felt  a  wave  of  bitterness  rush 
over  me  at  this  fresh  temptation  which  God  had 
sent  me  at  the  very  moment  when  I  had  made  a 
great  sacrifice  in  order  to  remain  faithful  to  His 
laws.  I  took  up  my  pen  and  wrote  out  the 
information  the  lady  had  asked  for,  omitting, 
however,  any  allusion  to  a  future  call.  Then  I 
devoted  my  attention  entirely  to  the  necessary 
preparation  of  myself  for  the  office  of  mayor. 
My  God,  Don  Giuseppe!  All  this  happened  a 
year  ago,  and  I  am  still  so  wretched!  If  there 
be  any  means  of  salvation  for  me  it  can  only  come 
through  my  withdrawal  from  the  world!" 

The  young  man  ceased  speaking.  Presently 
he  seized  the  priest's  arm,  and  pressed  it  spasmod- 
ically and  passionately. 

"Don  Giuseppe,  Don  Giuseppe!    Think,  think! 


In  the  Monastery  69 

Is  it  indeed  impossible?  The  independent  life  of  a 
hermit  will  not  do  for  me.  I  need  a  prison  to 
defend  me  against  myself;  I  need  four  walls  like 
the  walls  of  a  tomb,  hard,  cold  and  silent;  and 
at  this  moment  I  am  quite  ready,  I  would  gladly 
enter  my  prison  to-morrow!  I  appeal  to  you  in 
the  name  of  my  dead  father,  of  my  dead  mother, 
whom  you  remember  with  so  much  affection!  I 
entreat  you!" 

He  would  have  thrown  himself  upon  his  knees 
as  he  uttered  these  words  had  Don  Giuseppe  not 
prevented  this  by  quickly  folding  him  in  his  arms. 
The  priest's  broad,  majestic  brow  irradiated  pity 
and  sorrow,  his  eyes  were  dim,  and  his  voice 
died  out  in  a  silent,  spasmodic  contraction  of  the 
lower  part  of  his  face. 

"No,"  he  replied,  speaking  with  difficulty  and 
after  a  long  pause.  "No,  not  the  cell.  The  cell 
at  present  would  not  do  for  you." 

"Why,  why?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  whispered  sadly,  "  Because  all  your  tempta- 
tions would  enter  it  with  you.  Because  the  world 
is  still  too  deeply  rooted  in  your  heart,  and 
although  you  might  believe  you  were  fleeing  from 
it,  you  would  in  reality  be  carrying  it  with  you." 

"But  perhaps  God  would  give  me  more 
strength." 

Don  Giuseppe  sighed  as  one  who  is  grieved 
because  his  words  are  not  believed. 

"We  will  discuss  that  later,"  he  said.     "Tell 


7o  The   Sinner 

me,    meanwhile,    why    you    are    so    unhappy    at 
present." 

"  I  will.  In  the  first  place  my  faith  is  con- 
stantly diminishing.  A  few  minutes  ago  I  spoke 
of  doubts.  I  will  confess  at  once  that  my  doubts 
arise  from  sentiment,  they  are  instinctive  doubts, 
and  I  am  aware  that,  in  reality,  they  derive  rather 
from  an  aggregate  of  impressions  than  from 
ratiocination.  Ever  since  those  first  temptations 
of  the  senses  and  my  movement  of  rebellion  against 
God  who  had  laid  down  this  terrible  law,  this 
law  against  my  bodily  nature,  and  who  would  not 
help  me  to  obey,  ever  since  that  time — and  this 
is  a  circumstance  which  may  be  damning  to  me, 
but  which  is,  nevertheless,  perfectly  true — I  had 
begun  to  be  exasperated  by  the  sort  of  religion 
I  saw  around  me;  exasperated  by  my  father-in- 
law's  scruples,  my  father-in-law,  who  is  always 
prating  of  Christian  humility,  who  kneels  before 
the  Bishop  and  who  nevertheless  would  crawl  up 
the  stairs  of  all  the  Government  offices  on  hands 
and  knees  if  he  could  only  become  a  senator!  I 
was  even  exasperated  at  times  by  the  religious 
practices  of  my  mother-in-law,  who,  with  all  her 
piety  and  kindliness,  often  suggests  to  her  husband 
acts  of  outrageous  meanness  in  business  matters. 
Certain  pious  persons  exasperated  me,  who  come 
regularly  every  night  to  spend  a  dull  evening  at 
Casa  Scremin  for  the  sake  of  a  good  feed  there 
once  a  week.  Then  there  were  other  pious 
persons,  some  misers,  some  slanderers,  and  all 


full  of  venom  against  everything  and  everybody 
and  absolutely  ferocious  against  such  unfortunates 
as  had  yielded  to  an  unlawful  passion.  A  certain 
Pharisaical  formalism,  certain  idolatrous  supersti- 
tions, certain  pagan  incense  burned  before  mere 
men  irritated  me.  At  that  time  I  sought  to  banish 
this  feeling,  looking  upon  it  as  a  temptation  to 
sin  against  charity  and  humility.  But,  ah,  Don 
Giuseppe!  how  it  has  increased  in  the  year  that  I 
have  passed  as  mayor,  in  the  midst  of  the  active 
and  militant  branch  of  a  party  which  already 
mistrusts  me,  because  it  has  guessed  something  of 
what  is  going  on  within  me!  I  will  not  tell  you 
of  all  the  meanness  and  the  despicable  baseness, 
all  the  petty  intrigues  and  ambitions,  all  the 
rancour  that  is  continually  fermenting  around  me. 
Pray  do  not  imagine  that  I  admire  those  others, 
my  usual  opponents  in  the  town  council.  They 
are  men  who  are  ever  ready  to  bully  those  who 
neither  strike  back  nor  retaliate  in  any  way,  men 
who  are  lavish  with  sentimental  words,  but  miserly 
with  money;  men  who  fear  holy-water  while  they 
live,  and  the  devil  when  they  come  to  die;  men 
always  riding  the  high  horse  upon  Rome  and  the 
liberal  monarchy,  for  which  I  am  willing  to  take 
my  oath  three  out  of  four  of  them  care  not  at  all. 
I  have  no  admiration  for  such  men,  but  they,  at 
least  do  not  press  forward  in  God's  name.  I  take 
no  heed  of  them.  But  this  is  my  terrible,  haunt- 
ing thought:  Can  it  be  possible  that  those  other 
despicable  creatures,  those  puny,  malicious,  fool- 


72  The   Sinner 

ish  creatures,  be  in  sole  possession  of  the  truth, 
of  the  secret  of  all  Being,  the  secret  of  the  human 
soul  and  of  our  future  destiny?  For  a  time  I  en- 
trenched myself  behind  the  reasons  for  belief 
which  my  own  brain,  my  own  heart,  contained, 
but  now  I  no  longer  feel  safe  even  there.  Answer 
me  this:  Can  I  be  sure  that  my  faith  did  indeed 
originate  in  my  own  ratiocination,  my  own 
sentiment?  Can  I  be  sure  that  it  was  not  sown 
there  and  fostered  by  my  educators.  Can  I  be 
sure — forgive  me,  Don  Giuseppe! — that  they  did 
not  distort  my  brain  and  heart  that  they  might 
form  them  into  receptacles  for  that  artificial 
culture  of  theirs,  so  that,  after  all,  it  is  their  faith 
and  not  mine,  that  lives  in  me,  because  I  have 
never  been  free  to  believe  or  disbelieve,  and  am 
only  now  acquiring  that  freedom?  Their  faith! 
Perhaps  it  is  simply  that  faith  that  was  forced 
upon  them  also  in  their  tender  years,  distorting 
their  intellect  also.  Do  you  understand  what  a 
frightful  doubt  mine  is?  For  this  reason  also  I 
long  to  bury  myself  in  a  convent  of  Trappists, 
among  pious  men  who  have  kept  nothing  for 
themselves,  who  have  given  all  to  God;  men  I 
must  of  necessity  admire,  and  who  have  also 
received  their  faith  from  their  educators,  but  who 
have  greatly  increased  it,  by  their  own  strength, 
within  themselves.  Is  it  not  possible,  Don 
Giuseppe?  Is  it  not  possible?" 

"Certainly    not!"     Don    Giuseppe    exclaimed 
almost  angrily.     His  face  was  cold  and  stern  like 


In  the  Monastery  73 

the  face  of  a  physician  who  has  been  but  slightly 
moved  by  his  patient's  lamentations,  but  who, 
having  listened  to  the  beating  of  his  heart,  has 
heard  the  halting  step  of  death  down  in  the  depths. 
He  believed  Maironi  had  finished,  and,  as  if 
doubtful  how  to  begin,  his  face  and  his  hands, 
which  were  clasped  before  his  breast,  working  un- 
easily and  expressively,  he  said: 

"Well " 

Maironi  whispered  quickly  in  a  despairing  voice : 

"  I  have  not  finished,  Don  Giuseppe.  I  have 
not  finished." 

"Ah,  very  well!     Tell  me  everything." 

Piero  did  not  speak  at  once.  The  most  painful 
words  of  all,  perhaps,  must  now  be  spoken.  They 
formed  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and  would  not  come 
forth. 

"If  you  believe  it  is  best  for  you  to  speak," 
said  Don  Giuseppe  kindly,  "be  brave." 

' '  Yes,  dear  Don  Giuseppe,  I  will  be  brave !  You 
remember  I  mentioned  a  lady  to  you?  A  lady  I 
met  one  day  in  the  train,  and  who  afterwards  sent 
me  a  note  to  which  I  replied  in  writing,  that  I 
might  not  be  tempted  to  go  to  her?  Well— 

"Ah!"  Don  Giuseppe  exclaimed  involuntarily 
under  his  breath. 

"  Wait! "  cried  the  young  man.  "  Perhaps  what 
you  are  imagining  is  worse  than  what  I  am  about 
to  tell  you!  After  all,  I  see  no  reason  for  hiding 
anything  from  you  at  such  a  moment  as  this. 
The  lady  is  Signora  Dessalle,  of  Villa  Diedo.  You 


74  The   Sinner 

have  surely  heard  of  her.     Have  you  heard  evil 
of  her?  much  evil?" 

"Well,  yes.  I  certainly  have  not  heard  much 
good  of  her,"  Don  Giuseppe  replied,  greatly  em- 
barrassed, and  speaking  unwillingly.  "  Not  much 
good.  However,  it  struck  me  that,  after  all,  the 
accusations  were  vague,  and  were  perhaps,  only 
idle  gossip  and  unjust  suspicions." 

In  his  desire  to  discover  the  probably  false 
nature  of  this  gossip,  the  old  man's  fine  eyes  were 
now  shining  with  a  happy  light.  Maironi,  noticing 
that  benevolent  expression,  concluded  that  Don 
Giuseppe  was  kindly  disposed  towards  the  person 
of  whom  he  had  been  speaking  as  of  a  peril,  and 
once  more  he  seized  the  old  man's  hands  and 
pressed  them,  unconsciously  questioning  him  with 
his  eyes,  almost  as  if  hoping  to  hear  his  sentiment 
alluded  to  in  indulgent  language.  Don  Giuseppe 
did  not  understand. 

"  What  is  it?"  said  he.  The  benevolent  light  had 
already  faded  from  his  eyes. 

Maironi  answered  sadly: 

"Nothing.  What  was  I  saying?  I  believe  it 
was  all  slander,  and  the  odious  stories  that  were 
told  about  her  in  the  beginning  have  now  ceased 
to  circulate.  I  believe  she  is  virtuous.  You  are 
aware  she  is  separated  from  her  husband?  She 
applied  for  a  separation  because  her  husband 
drank  and  beat  her.  She  is  virtuous  from  self- 
respect,  from  pride,  you  see,  perhaps  also  from 
disgust  and  a  strong  moral  sense,  but  not  from 


In  the  Monastery  75 

any  religious  sentiment.  My  God!  How  can 
I  make  you  understand  what  has  passed  between 
us?  For  there  have  been  no  acts,  and  I  can  only 
try  to  describe  the  phases  through  which  my  soul 
is  passing,  which  I  feel  in  her  also,  and  which 
mean  everything.  Yes,  I  see  the  workings  of  her 
soul  plainly  enough,  for  she  is  very  passionate 
and  apt  to  betray  herself,  even  when  she  is  strug- 
gling against  herself,  even  when,  from  pride  per- 
haps, she  is  fighting  her  own  inclinations,  and 
is  hostile  towards  me.  I  have  discovered  that 
she,  like  myself,  received  the  first  impression  in 
the  train.  The  first  time  I  called  upon  her  I  was 
with  Deputy-Councillor  Bassanelli,  a  friend  of  the 
Dessalles  and  a  comrade-in-arms  of  my  father;  he 
limps  still  in  consequence  of  a  wound  he  received 
at  Palestro.  Bassanelli  wished  to  show  me  the 
narrow  communal  road  leading  to  Villa  Diedo,  that 
the  commune  has  been  called  upon  to  mend.  We 
met  Signer  Dessalle,  who  insisted  upon  our  going 
into  the  house.  I  came  away  alone.  Of  course 
you  know  Villa  Diedo?  You  have  surely  been 
there  to  see  the  frescoes  by  Tiepolo.  As  I  came 
out  upon  the  western  terrace,  among  those  sway- 
ing roses  that  cover  the  balustrades,  as  I  went 
down  the  steps  towards  a  glorious  sunset,  I  felt 
the  intoxication,  as  it  were,  of  a  strange  dream, 
and  at  the  same  time  I  felt  a  silent  pain,  that 
throbbed  in  the  very  centre  of  my  being.  I  had 
seen  that  this  woman  wished  me  to  fall  in  love 
with  her,  and  I  was  attracted  to  her,  not  through 


76  The   Sinner 

my  senses,  for  they  were  silent,  not  through  my 
soul,  for  my  soul  was  afraid,  but  by  some  magnetic 
fascination.  Now — and  this  is  a  point  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand,  and  never  shall 
understand  if  you  do  not  help  me — the  idea  of  a 
spiritual  bond,  of  a  purely  spiritual  bond  between 
myself  and  this  woman,  terrified  me  far  more 
than  the  idea  of  sinning  deeply  and  grossly  with 
the  first  unfortunate  I  might  meet  on  the  street. 
I  went  to  Villa  Diedo  very  often  after  that,  and 
for  some  time  almost  unwillingly,  drawn  probably 
by  the  magnetism.  I  went  there  like  one  who  is  in 
love,  but  I  did  not  believe  I  was  in  love.  I  could 
not  help  often  looking  at  her,  often  speaking  to 
her  when  we  were  alone,  as  one  who  loved  her  in- 
deed, but  was  seeking  to  control  his  feelings.  Mean- 
while I  must  tell  you  that  my  other  temptations 
had  ceased  to  torment  me.  It  was  perhaps  for  this 
reason  that  my  confessor  cited  to  me  a  passage  from 
the  Imitation  of  Christ,  to  the  effect  that  we  need 
not  necessarily  turn  at  once  from  every  affection 
that  has  the  appearance  of  evil,  and  he  did  not 
order  me  to  cease  visiting  her.  He  is  a  holy  man, 
but,  with  the  exception  of  sins,  there  are  certain 
things  he  cannot  understand.  To  tell  him  these 
things  would  be  worse  than  useless.  Well,  very 
recently,  within  the  last  few  days,  indeed,  there 
has  been  a  change.  I  feel,  I  see,  I  know  that  if 
at  first  it  was  caprice  on  her  part,  it  is  now 
passion,  a  passion  she  has  ceased  trying  to  conceal. 
Only  yesterday  she  was  on  the  verge  of  con- 


In  the  Monastery  77 

fessing  as  much  to  me.  And  for  the  last  three 
days  I  have  feared  that  real  passion  was  taking 
hold  of  me  also,  for  my  moral  sense  has  even 
become  dulled  at  times.  At  certain  moments  it 
seems  to  me  that  in  the  presence  of  love,  every 
moral  restraint  should  cease,  should  be  swept 
aside  and  that  love  should  be  free  to  accomplish 
all  its  desires.  I  still  rebel  against  such  thoughts, 
they  still  fill  me  with  horror,  and  I  banish  them, 
telling  myself  that  though  I  may  entertain  them 
in  imagination,  I  should  never  be  capable  of 
assenting  to  them  in  deed.  Then,  from  time  to 
time,  a  mighty  reaction  of  all  my  powers  of  resist- 
ing evil  takes  place  within  me,  a  reaction  of  faith, 
of  mystic  yearnings,  even  of  tenderness  for  my 
unhappy  wife,  for  the  memory  of  my  father  and 
mother.  Good  and  evil  alternate  in  me  with  a 
violence  which  I  am  no  longer  able  to  endure. 
Shall  I  tell  you  all?  My  only  calm  moments, 
my  only  restful  moments  are  when  I  am  with  this 
woman.  Her  presence  soothes  rather  than  excites 
me.  It  is  true  I  am  worse  afterwards.  I  do  not 
know  how  I  can  go  on  attending  to  the  duties 
of  my  office.  People  must  already  see  that  some- 
thing is  wrong.  It  is  not  possible  to  hide  it. 
Last  night  I  could  not  sleep,  but  I  had  a  good 
hour,  and  I  wept  and  prayed  fervently.  It  was 
then  that  the  idea  of  withdrawing  from  the  world 
came  to  me,  and  I  felt  the  Lord  had  inspired  me 
to  come  to  you,  so- 
Violent  sobs  unrelieved  by  tears  choked  his 


78  The   Sinner 

voice.  Don  Giuseppe  laid  his  hand  gently  upon 
his  head. 

"No,"  said  he,  "no,  my  son.  Why  despair? 
You  may  indeed  feel  sorrow,  but  you  must  not 
fear.  You  are  being  tossed  about  by  the  waves 
while  a  great  storm  rages,  but,  believe  me,  Christ 
is  with  you  in  the  bark!  Christ,  who  sleeps." 

"Talk  to  me!  talk  to  me  !"  Maironi  murmured. 
He  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  priest,  who  no  longer 
sought  to  prevent  him. 

"  Yes,  my  son,  yes.  In  the  first  place  you  must 
not  be  so  terrified  by  your  temptations.  Do  not 
fancy  you  are  more  sorely  tempted  than  some 
others  who  seem  to  you  to  be  safe  from  evil  and 
to  belong  entirely  to  God.  As  to  your  tempta- 
tions against  faith,  if  you  will  persevere  in  resist- 
ing them  I  do  not  think  they  will  prove  formidable. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  temptations  of  the  senses 
which  were  so  violent,  and  which  might  easily 
have  been  foreseen  when  we  consider  the  frailty 
of  human  nature,  probably  these  others  would 
not  have  assailed  you.  Why  was  your  faith 
shaken?  Because  you  believed  God  did  not  help 
you  to  obey  His  stern  law,  because  you  feared 
your  faith  had  been  forced  upon  you,  because  you 
saw  many  narrow-minded  Catholics  around  you, 
who  did  not  seem  to  live  up  to  the  evangelical 
ideal.  Now  observe  how  slight  these  objections 
really  are.  God  does  not  help  you?  How  dare 
you  say  He  does  not  help  you?  He  did  indeed 
allow  you  to  be  tempted,  but  when  you  struggled, 


In  the  Monastery  79 

when  you  conquered  as  you  have  told  me,  who 
gave  you  the  power  for  good?  Do  you  not  know 
that  nemo  potest  esse  continens  nisi  Deus  detf 
God  acts  in  secret  and  we  may  not  be  conscious  of 
what  He  does  within  and  around  us,  but  we  surely 
could  not  conquer  the  flesh  without  His  aid. 
Even  though  He  once  allowed  you  to  fall,  He 
raised  you  up  again  without  delay. — Your  faith 
forced  upon  you?  That  is  true,  if  you  will,  true, 
at  least,  to  a  certain  extent;  but  does  that  seem 
to  you  sufficient  reason  for  rejecting  it?  Would 
you  reject  the  notions  of  science  that  were  instilled 
into  your  mind  as  a  boy  simply  because  they  were 
not  proved  to  you?  Is  not  this  rather  a  fresh 
stimulus  to  consider,  to  ponder  upon  the  rational 
foundations  of  our  faith,  which  are  indeed  magni- 
ficent; to  fulfil  one  of  the  duties  of  every  intelligent 
and  cultivated  Christian,  which  is,  alas,  too  little 
understood,  too  often  neglected,  the  duty  of 
elevating  our  own  conception,  of  forming  a  con- 
ception of  Catholic  truth  above  the  popular  and 
childish  conception;  of  forming  a  conception  for 
ourselves  which  shall  be  in  just  proportion  to  that 
faculty  which  God  has  bestowed  upon  us  in  order 
that  we  may  recognise  and  glorify  Him?  And 
as  to  the  disgust  with  which  some  persons  inspire 
you — get  up,  and  sit  here — that  is  indeed  a  weak 
argument!  Let  us  admit  that  these  persons  are 
all  you  say,  I  will  not  judge  them;  perhaps  their 
intentions  are  better  than  their  deeds.  I  wish, 
however,  to  assure  you  that  your  mother-in-law 


8o  The    Sinner 

may  have  some  little  weaknesses — I  cannot  judge 
of  that — but  nevertheless,  hers  is  a  most  lofty 
Christian  soul.  But  let  that  pass.  Do  your 
parents-in-law,  their  friends,  your  colleagues,  and 
perhaps  a  hundred  other  so-called  pious  people, 
represent  to  you  the  whole  Catholic  Church,  the 
Church  of  all  places  and  of  all  times?  Has  not 
the  Catholic  Church  produced  a  crowd  of  holy 
men,  of  great  men,  who  have  had  a  well-balanced 
conception  of  religious  truth  and  of  the  best  way 
to  practise  it?  And  have  you  yourself  never 
found  moral  greatness  in  humble  persons  who 
know  nothing  of  parties,  and  who  ardently  profess 
the  Catholic  religion?  It  seems  incredible!  You 
are  not  aware  of  it,  but  it  is  passion  that  prevents 
you  from  seeing  things  in  the  right  light.  Believe 
me,  I  might  approve  of  apostles  who  should  rise 
up  and  preach  the  elevation  of  the  Christian  spirit 
in  the  Church,  but  could  I  leave  her  because 
to-day,  in  her  human  element,  she  does  not 
correspond  with  the  ideal  we  cherish?  Then,  by 
the  same  reasoning,  if  we  are  patriots,  let  us  go  into 
exile!  Am  I  not  right?" 

As  he  spoke  thus  the  old  priest  looked  at  Piero 
with  all  his  soul  glowing  in  his  brimming  eyes, 
that  were  full  of  a  fervent  appeal  to  reason.  With 
parted  lips  he  waited  for  an  answer,  bending 
eagerly  forward  towards  Maironi,  and  speaking 
to  him  still,  with  his  face  and  his  shining  eyes. 

"Pardon  me,"  the  young  man  replied,  greatly 
distressed.  "  Perhaps  there  may  be  some  other 


In  the  Monastery  81 

reason  for  my  doubts,  a  more  occult  reason  of 
which  I  am  ignorant." 

Don  Giuseppe  sighed. 

"  Listen,"  said  he,  after  a  short  pause.  "  While 
you  were  talking  to  me  of  the  person  who  attracts 
you,  I  thought  of  something.  If  the  experiment 
of  public  life  has  not  proved  successful,  why  not 
abandon  it?  If  you  are  not  pleased  with  your 
colleagues,  why  remain  at  the  town  hall?  And 
should  you  decide  to  leave  the  town  hall  suddenly, 
would  you  wish  to  remain  in  the  city  and  submit 
to  the  annoyance  of  the  pressure  that  would  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  you,  of  the  questions  that 
would  be  asked,  of  the  tales  that  would  be  told 
concerning  you?  Why  not  go  and  spend  a  year 
or  two  in  your  parents'  home?  I  believe  the  life 
you  would  lead  there  would  greatly  benefit  you. 
It  is  a  country  that  is  in  itself  spiritual,  favourable 
to  self -concentration,  full  of — how  shall  I  express 
it? — of  chaste  sweetness." 

"And  so—  '  Maironi  said  softly.  The  word 
that  should  have  followed  died  upon  his  lips. 
Why  should  he  utter  it?  Don  Giuseppe  himself 
had  not  pronounced  it,  though  all  he  had  said 
concerning  the  town  hall,  the  city  and  Valsolda 
had  simply  meant  that  one  word:  Renunciation! 

"But  you  were  willing  to  enter  a  convent?" 
Don  Giuseppe  added,  seeing  him  hesitate. 

Maironi  turned  slowly  towards  him  with  open 
arms,  embraced  him,  and,  hiding  his  face  upon 
the  priest's  shoulder,  murmured: 


82  The   Sinner 

"  It  would  be  easier  to  withdraw  from  the  world." 
Then  in  his  turn  the  old  priest  threw  his  arms 
around  the  young  man,  and  spoke  grave  words 
to  him,  his  lips  touching  Piero's  hair.  The  low 
ring  of  those  pious  words  was  deep  and  intensely 
sweet. 

"My  son,  you  must  remain  in  the  world,  and 
still  you  must  withdraw  from  it.  Your  cell  must 
be  in  your  own  heart,  in  the  deepest  recess  of  your 
heart.  Yes  dear,  shed  tears  of  grief,  but  shed 
tears  of  tenderness  also.  There  is  One  who  at 
this  very  moment  is  preparing  your  cell,  who  is 
waiting  there  to  welcome  you,  who  is  calling  out 
to  you  to  come  to  Him,  to  rest  your  head  upon 
His  breast  because  He  is  so  full  of  pity  for  you, 
because  He  so  longs  to  forgive  everything,  every- 
thing, everything!  Enter,  enter!  Do  not  resist! 
You  say  your  sufferings  are  great?  Yes,  because 
you  consider  only  the  things  of  this  world  to  which 
you  are  bound,  and  although  Jesus  is  in  them  also, 
it  is  the  stern  Jesus,  the  sad  Jesus,  and  there  is 
nothing  that  can  make  the  heart  ache  like  the 
stern,  sad  face  of  Jesus.  Believe  me,  the  bitter- 
ness of  your  heart  is  a  precious  gift!  How  can 
you  live  in  such  torment,  how  can  you  resist  turn- 
ing from  the  stern  Jesus  to  the  loving  Jesus? 
And  your  very  temptations  are  a  precious  gift 
also,  for,  by  the  very  fact  of  their  unusual  violence, 
they  bear  witness  that  the  Lord  has  appointed 
you  to  fulfil  some  high  destiny.  I  speak  thus 
according  to  the  word  of  an  archangel,  one  of  the 


In  the  Monastery  83 

deepest  words  that  has  reached  us  from  the  angelic 
world.  You  say  the  temptations  of  the  senses 
have  diminished,  and  that  you  cannot  understand 
why  the  danger  of  binding  yourself  to  this  woman 
through  your  soul  should  be  more  terrifying  to 
you  than  the  danger  of  a  purely  sensual  fall. 
Your  terror  is  justified,  for  the  very  vileness  of  the 
purely  sensual  sin  is  at  first  a  restraint,  and 
afterwards  generates  that  impulse  of  remorse  and 
loathing  which  soon  helps  the  sinner  to  rise  again. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  tie  which  is  believed  to  be 
of  the  soul  alone  leads,  little  by  little,  when  occa- 
sion presents  itself,  to  certain  familiarities,  which 
grow  more  and  more  sensual,  and  produce  an  un- 
due excitement  of  the  body,  which  mingles  with 
the  undue  excitement  of  the  spirit.  Then  in  this 
natural  mingling  of  body  and  spirit  the  sin  appears 
less  vile,  a  less  hideous  distortion  of  human  nature, 
and  generates  no  hatred  of  the  accomplice,  as  in 
the  first  instance,  but  generates  rather  a  closer 
union  in  evil  doing,  a  proud,  blind,  self-satisfied 
union,  which  lasts  until  the  hour  of  atonement 
arrives,  and  body  and  soul  grow  cold.  Thank 
your  God  that  He  has  warned  you  of  a  danger 
you  could  not  see,  by  means  of  a  horror  you  could 
not  understand!  Do  not  delay,  cease  seeing  this 
woman  at  once,  and,  fearless  of  your  doubts  con- 
cerning the  Faith,  hide  yourself  in  the  arms  of 
Jesus.  And  so  I  shall  give  you  no  more  advice 
as  to  whether  you  had  best  go  away  or  remain, 
for  I  already  see  you  enfolded  in  those  arms, 


84  The   Sinner 

resting  upon  that  breast,  and  I  know  that  I  may 
only  repeat:  Ask  Him!  Listen  to  Him!  But 
when  you  shall  have  confided  all  your  desires  to 
Jesus,  I  pray  you,  at  the  end,  to  remember  this 
old  priest,  whose  spirit  is  still  so  hampered  by  a 
miserable  body,  which  grows  ever  weaker  but  will 
not  pass  away.  Do  you  understand  me,  my  son?" 
Maironi  did  not  answer,  but  wept  as  he  kissed 
the  hem  of  the  holy  man's  garment.  And  the 
holy  man  bent  his  head,  and  let  his  lips  rest  upon 
Piero's  hair,  while  his  eyes  gazed  reverently  up- 
ward, towards  the  invisible. 

It  was  no  longer  raining.  Pale  rays  from  the 
sun  that  was  half  hidden  behind  yellow-tinged 
clouds  enlivened  the  sleepy  garden,  and  shone  upon 
the  damp  steps  of  the  villa,  where  Don  Giuseppe 
was  standing  with  a  sad  smile  upon  his  face,  and 
calling  Maironi's  attention  to  the  picture  presented 
by  the  plain,  that  faded  away  on  one  side  towards 
the  bluish,  cone-shaped  Euganeian  Hills,  on  the 
other  towards  the  thin  wall  of  the  Berici;  and  he 
was  also  telling  him  of  the  garden  he  had  planned, 
designed,  and  created  upon  this  uncultivated  plain 
and  this  wild  hillside;  how  he  had  gradually  im- 
proved it  from  year  to  year,  and  dreamt  of  it 
blossoming  in  the  future,  not,  indeed,  for  himself, 
but  for  other  souls  he  had  loved,  but  who,  con- 
trary to  all  human  prescience,  had  left  this  world 
before  him. 


In  the  Monastery  85 

"There,"   said   he,    pointing  towards  the   Eu- 
ganeian  Hills,  "  Praglia  is  over  there." 

In  order  to  be  free  to  call  upon  Don  Giuseppe, 
Maironi  had  told  them  at  home  that  he  was  going 
to  take  a  day's  rest,  and  that  he  wished  to  re- visit 
the  Benedictine  abbey  of  Praglia.  Now  he  was 
no  longer  anxious  to  go  there.  Don  Giuseppe, 
however,  encouraged  him  to  do  so.  The  ancient 
monastery  was  so  magnificent  in  its  sadness!  It 
was  so  well  adapted,  in  its  majestic  solitude,  to 
those  meditations  of  which  Maironi  stood  in  the 
greatest  need.  The  old  man's  face  glowed  with 
animation  as  he  talked  of  the  nobly-proportioned 
and  severe  courtyards,  of  the  Crucifixion  by 
Bartolomeo  Montagna  in  the  refectory,  of  the 
shameful  state  of  neglect  in  which  the  Govern- 
ment had  left  this  splendid  monument,  and  of  the 
still  more  serious  outrages  which  were  feared  at 
that  time,  and  which  were,  in  fact,  perpetrated 
later  on.  It  was  like  the  cowardly  murder  of  a 
grand  old  man,  a  crime  committed  in  silence,  to 
which  the  surrounding  solitude  was  an  accomplice. 
Maironi,  whose  thoughts  were  elsewhere,  was  a 
poor  listener.  He  was  thinking  of  that  other 
distant  solitude,  Valsolda.  Only  the  day  before 
a  letter  from  Valsolda  had  informed  him  that 
the  mandarin-tree  in  the  little  hanging-garden  was 
in  a  pitiful  condition  after  the  hard  winter;  that 
the  venerable  passion-flower  vine  on  the  terrace 
was  dead;  that  the  roof  of  the  hall  needed  repair- 
ing, as  did  also  the  piles  forming  the  foundations 


86  The    Sinner 

in  the  lake,  and  that  an  early  visit  from  the  master 
was  eagerly  looked  forward  to.  While  Don 
Giuseppe  was  telling  him  of  the  painful  state  of 
neglect  into  which  Praglia  had  fallen,  he  was  think- 
ing of  the  little  deserted  house  where  his  father 
and  mother  had  died,  and  which  he  visited  only 
twice  a  year:  once  on  All  Souls'  Day,  and  again  in 
May,  to  provide  flowers  for  the  little  garden.  The 
priest  became  conscious  he  was  not  listening,  and 
lapsed  into  silence.  Then,  as  if  seeking  to  discover 
his  guest's  thoughts  in  matters  that  were  nearer 
at  hand,  he  spoke  of  a  visit  Marchesa  Nene  had 
paid  him  the  year  before. 

"  She  wished  a  Mass  said  for  your  wife  in  my 
chapel  over  yonder.  Your  wife  was  here  once  as 
a  child,  and  took  the  greatest  delight  in  blowing 
the  organ.  The  Marchesa  also  asked  for  some 
oranges  from  my  orangery — though,  indeed,  they 
are  very  sour — but  your  wife  enjoyed  them  when 
she  was  here,  and  often  spoke  of  them  afterwards. 
The  poor  woman  also  begged  me  to  send  a  wrord 
of  comfort  with  the  oranges."  At  this  point  Don 
Giuseppe  smiled  pityingly  and  sadly,  as  if 
to  say:  "Fancy  how  little  any  word  of  mine  can 
avail!" 

"However,  I  will  send  a  message  with  the 
oranges,"  he  said,  and  added:  "I  was  really  filled 
with  the  greatest  reverence  for  the  poor  Marchesa. 
You  know,  she  seldom  gives  expression  to  her 
true  feelings — she  never  says  startling  things. 
Well,  just  here  where  we  are  standing,  I  remember 


In  the  Monastery  87 

she  spoke  these  very  words  without  tears,  without 
exhibiting  much  emotion :  '  Don  Giuseppe,  tell  the 
Lord  I  can  bear  it  no  longer!' 

When  one  recalled  the  calm  mask  the  old  lady 
always  wore  both  before  her  own  people  and  before 
the  world,  these  seemed  tragic  words  indeed. 
Although  Maironi  had  on  several  occasions  caught 
glimpses  of  the  secret  depths  of  her  soul,  these 
words  now  came  as  a  reproach  to  him;  he  felt 
the  moral  inferiority  of  his  own  nature,  which 
was  so  quick  to  forget,  so  sensual.  At  the  same 
time  a  doubt  flashed  across  his  mind  as  to  whether 
his  will  be  not,  after  all,  powerless  against  this 
fatal  tendency  that  dominated  his  whole  being, 
and  from  his  swelling  heart  there  rose  a  bitter 
Why?  But  he  quickly  humbled  himself  out  of 
reverence  for  the  lofty  spirit  that  was  near 
him. 

"  Don  Giuseppe,"  he  said,  when  the  servant  had 
announced  that  the  carriage  was  ready,  "  do  you 
really  believe  the  Lord  will  help  me?" 

"  Most  certainly,  if  you  do  not  doubt  His 
aid." 

A  small  basket  of  oranges  had  been  placed  on  the 
seat  of  the  carriage.  Maironi  turned  to  Don 
Giuseppe.  "They  are  the  oranges  I  told  you 
about,"  said  Don  Giuseppe  humbly,  as  if  in 
apology.  The  young  man  pressed  his  hands 
warmly,  but  was  unable  to  speak.  As  the  little 
carriage  was  about  to  start  he  controlled  himself 
sufficiently  to  raise  his  hat,  and  thus  silently  re- 


88  The    Sinner 

turned  the  farewell  greeting  of   the  old   priest, 
who  was  also  silent  and  deeply  moved. 

II 

At  first  the  little  carriage  followed  the  crests  of  a 
series  of  low  hills,  passed  a  village,  a  river,  more 
villages,  rolled  along  a  narrow,  winding  and  vag- 
abond road  that  led  across  the  plains  as  far  as  the 
outposts  of  the  Euganeian  Hills,  and  then  turned 
into  the  avenue  of  majestic  plane-trees  that  skirts 
their  only  flank  on  the  north. 

Where  this  flank  faces  about  to  look  eastwards 
and  then  stretches  away  to  the  south,  a  broad 
road  branches  off  from  the  highway  which  it 
follows  for  a  time,  to  bring  up  in  about  five  minutes 
at  the  gloomy  wall  that  girts  the  great  deserted 
monastery,  the  battlemented  tower,  the  beautiful 
and  mighty  temple  of  the  Quattrocento,  resting 
upon  an  enormous  cube  of  black  rock,  from  which 
burst  forth  here  and  there,  as  if  in  league  with 
rebellious  thought,  the  rebellious,  living  grasses. 
Maironi  accomplished  the  entire  journey  without 
once  looking  to  right  or  left,  absorbed  as  he  was 
in  the  drama  that  was  going  on  within  him, 
haunted  by  visions  of  Villa  Diedo,  and  by  the 
spectre  of  Valsolda.  From  time  to  time  also  the 
demands  of  much  pressing  and  important  public 
business,  to  which  he  was  in  duty  bound  to  attend, 
came  to  torment  him,  although  he  strove  not  to 
listen  to  them.  On  the  whole,  his  conference 
with  Don  Giuseppe  had  left  his  soul  full  of  grati- 


In  the  Monastery  89 

tude,  of  a  new  feeling  of  reverence,  of  ardent 
affection  for  the  saintly  old  man;  but  with  this 
sentiment  was  mingled  a  sense  of  disappointment 
of  which  he  had  not  at  first  been  conscious,  but 
which  gradually  became  manifest  as  he  pondered 
the  bare  wrords,  the  words  unaccompanied  by  the 
gentle,  serious  voice,  by  the  aspect  of  the  holy 
face,  by  the  atmosphere  surrounding  that  im- 
maculate spirit.  He  suspected  that  he  had  but 
imperfectly  revealed  himself,  had  been  but  im- 
perfectly understood,  and  he  furthermore  sus- 
pected that  the  advice  to  fly  to  some  solitude  and 
to  dwell  there,  had  been  prompted  by  an  inexact 
conception  of  his  nature,  had  been  suggested  by 
the  desire  to  replace  the  monastery,  which  was 
impossible,  by  a  way  of  life  resembling  the  mo- 
nastic life.  Now,  he  had  dreamed  of  sacrifice,  of 
harsh  penances,  but  the  idea  of  dwelling  idly  in  a 
pleasant  home  terrified  him.  Ah,  perhaps  God 
would  help  him !  Perhaps  the  strange  coincidence 
of  Don  Giuseppe's  advice  and  that  letter  from 
Valsolda  signified  an  interposition  of  Providence! 
When  he  found  himself  confronted  by  the  dark, 
encircling  walls  and  the  battlemented  tower  of 
Praglia,  he  reflected  that  possibly  the  Divine  Voice 
might  speak  .to  him  there,  in  the  silence  of  the 
ancient  monastery.  He  was  suddenly  and  vio- 
lently aroused  from  his  meditations  by  the 
noise  of  horses  trotting  rapidly,  and  of  wheels 
grating  on  the  gravel.  A  victoria  coming  from 
the  monastery  passed  close  to  him,  and  a 


90  The   Sinner 

well-known     voice    cried:     "Maironil    Maironi 
Stop,  stop!" 

The  little  carriage  came  to  a  standstill,  and  a 
fashionably  attired  young  man,  who  had  jumped 
out  of  the  victoria,  came  running  up  to  the  door. 

"  At  last!"  said  he,  with  a  strong  Tuscan  accent. 

"You  see,  Signor  S-indaco,  what  a  surprise  we 
have  prepared  for  you!  We  heard  that  our  lord 
and  master  was  coming  to  Praglia,  and  we,  who 
are  his  most  faithful  subjects,  promptly  followed 
him.  But  we  expected  to  find  you  here,  and 
were  somewhat  puzzled.  Jeanne  is  up  at  the 
monastery.  I  am  going  to  look  out  for  the  welfare 
of  my  horses,  but  I  shall  be  back  directly.  Look 
here,  you  have  no  umbrella,  and  you  have  not 
even  raised  the  hood!  You  will  surely  catch 
something  terrible  with  this  fine,  cold  rain,  which 
is  full  of  germs  in  April,  I  believe!" 

Maironi  had  not  even  been  conscious  it  was 
raining.  Upon  catching  sight  of  Carlino  Dessalle 
he  felt,  even  before  hearing  him  say  so,  that  his 
sister  was  at  Praglia,  that  she  had  come  on  his 
account,  and  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
turn  back.  A  flame  leaped  up  to  his  heart!  Was  it 
thus  that  God  was  helping  him?  Was  not  this 
rather  derision  of  one  who  had  looked  for  a 
revelation  of  the  Lord's  will  in  the  peace  of  the 
monastery,  and  derision  of  His  minister  as  well, 
of  that  saintly  old  man  who  had  advised  this 
journey?  He  silenced  his  inward  rebellion,  and 
greeted  Dessalle,  not,  however,  without  em- 


In  the  Monastery  91 

barrassment.  When  Dessalle  had  left  him,  Piero 
ordered  the  driver  to  proceed  at  a  walk.  Good 
God!  How  should  he  bear  himself  at  this  first 
meeting  ?  Should  he  let  her  guess  the  state  of  his 
soul,  his  resolution  to  leave  her,  or  should  he  seek 
to  hide  it,  and  dissemble?  Yes,  yes,  he  must 
dissemble.  But  he  must  not  go  too  far,  for  that 
would  be  disloyal.  He  must  get  away  as  soon  as 
possible.  But  what  pretext  could  he  invent  for 
hastening  his  departure?  What  pretext,  dear 
Lord?  The  horse's  hoofs  rang  upon  the  stones 
of  the  threshold,  and  Maironi,  whose  heart  was 
beating  violently,  sought  to  assume  an  expression 
of  indifference  as  the  little  carriage  entered  the 
portico  of  the  rustic  courtyard. 

There  was  no  one  there.  Piero  remained 
motionless  for  some  time,  contemplating  the 
trembling  of  the  fine  and  fast-falling  rain-drops 
as  they  beat  upon  the  thick  grass,  upon  the  grace- 
ful, sixteenth-century  well,  upon  the  lofty  flank 
of  the  monastery  that  towered  close  by  on  the 
left,  with  its  small  Gothic  windows,  the  high 
windows  of  the  great,  inner,  eighteenth-century 
stairway,  the  tiny  trilobate  arches  of  the  terra- 
cotta cornice.  He  looked  and  listened,  but  he 
heard  no  step,  no  voice.  At  last,  steeling  his 
heart  by  means  of  all  his  good  intentions,  he 
turned  to  the  left,  towards  a  door  that  was  partly 
open.  He  pushed  it  wide;  a  vision  of  soaring 
arches  rose  before  him,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
the  pious,  admonitory  thought  of  past  ages,  and 


92  The    Sinner 

of  a  stern  and  chaste  beauty.  He  entered,  and 
suddenly  ceased  to  feel,  ceased  to  see  all  this  gentle 
quattrocento  loveliness.  Not  ten  paces  from  him, 
Signora  Dessalle,  enveloped  in  a  long,  dark  green 
cloak  lined  with  fur,  a  high  collar  of  skunk  framing 
her  pale  face,  stood  motionless,  gazing  at  him. 

She  was  gazing  at  him  with  the  same  serious 
look  she  had  at  last  fixed  upon  his  face  that  day 
in  the  train,  after  many  fleeting  glances,  and 
uncertain  wavering  of  her  eyelids,  and  an  apparent 
struggle  with  herself.  The  great  eyes  of  this 
woman  in  whom  every  movement  of  her  tall  and 
slender  person,  every  line  of  her  rich  and  severe 
toilet  betrayed  innate  refinement,  had,  even  then, 
made  his  heart  beat  faster,  for  in  the  depths  of 
their  steady  gaze  he  had  seen  the  mingling  of 
hidden  passion  and  irony  that  gave  them  that 
indefinite  tinge  of  voluptuous  maturity.  She  had 
been  the  first  to  let  her  eyes  fall  beneath  the  young 
man's  gaze.  Then,  with  slow,  unstudied  move- 
ments of  the  hands,  and  looking  out  of  the  window 
the  while,  she  had  opened  the  long,  dark  green 
cloak  lined  with  fur,  thus  revealing  glimpses  of  the 
exquisite  lines  of  her  figure.  Her  face  and  move- 
ments testified  to  such  thorough  good  breed- 
ing that  the  bare  thought  that  she  had  performed 
this  act  intentionally,  had  caused  Maironi  the 
keenest  pleasure.  The  lovely  eyes,  once  more 
becoming  restless,  and  wandering  aimlessly  here 
and  there,  had  at  last  returned  to  rest  upon  his 
eyes,  and  had  made  his  whole  being  ache  with 


In  the  Monastery  93 

delight.  And  now,  after  many  months  of  fa- 
miliarity, she  still  looked  at  him  with  the  same 
expression,  standing  speechless  and  motionless, 
and  enveloped  in  the  same  cloak  with  the  high 
collar  of  skunk  framing  her  pale  and  serious  face. 
The  lovely,  dark  eyes  were  saying:  "  Here  I  am. 
I  came  on  your  account.  Have  I  done  wrong ?  I 
am  waiting  for  a  word  from  you." 

The  young  man  bowed  with  a  forced  smile,  and 
held  out  his  hand,  which  she  did  not  grasp. 

"Were  you  hoping  to  be  alone  up  here?  Shall 
I  go  away?"  she  said  with  her  fine,  rapid  utterance 
and  her  accent  that  was  purity  itself.  And 
slowly,  almost  timidly,  a  hand  in  a  white  glove 
appeared  from  beneath  the  half-open  cloak,  while 
her  steady  gaze  sought  an  answer  in  the  depths 
of  his  eyes. 

Maironi  pressed  the  offered  hand  and  murmured 
a  "thank  you,"  that  was  intended  to  spare  him 
a  direct  and  discourteous  answer,  but  his  tone 
was  cordial.  Immediately,  however,  on  seeing 
her  happy  smile,  he  felt  a  twinge  of  remorse. 

"Do  you  approve  of  my  toilette?"  said  she. 
"Do  you  remember  it?"  And  still  smiling,  she 
threw  the  cloak  a  little  farther  back,  once  more 
revealing  the  exquisite  lines  of  her  figure. 

The  colour  left  his  face,  and  he  answered  coldly 
that  he  remembered  well. 

"I  knew  you  would!  It  is  true  I  feel  the  cold 
very  much,  but  I  really  wore  this  cloak  because 
I  was  sure  you  would  remember.  I  fear  you  have 


94  The   Sinner 

never  since  thought  me  so  charming  as  that  day 
in  the  train.  Am  I  right?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  replied  laughingly,  "my 
heart  is  always  very  susceptible  when  I  am 
travelling!" 

The  young  lady  frowned  and  murmured :  "  You 
bad  boy! "  then  quickly  added :  "  But  you  do  think 
me  handsome — very  handsome — do  you  not? 
Even  now?" 

"Very  handsome  indeed!"  the  young  man  ex- 
claimed with  a  low  bow.  His  tone  vexed  her. 

"  If  I  were  not  such  a  coward  with  you  I  should 
turn  my  back  upon  you! "  said  she.  "  You  do  vex 
me  so!  You  are  always  so  entirely  master  of 
yourself,  while  I  immediately  betrayed  myself  as 
soon  as  I  began  to  feel.  I  don't  know  how  to 
dissimulate,  and  after  all,  I  don't  care!  Tell  me! 
Did  you  think  I  was  light,  that  day  on  the  train? 
Did  you  think  I  was  a  flirt?" 

"  No.  I  might  have  set  another  woman  down 
as  light  and  a  flirt,  but  not  you  with  that  look  of 
sincerity  in  your  eyes." 

"But  you  told  me  afterwards  that  you  did!" 

"That  was  only  to  tease  you." 

"And  now,  do  you  think  ill  of  me  for  coming 
here?" 

Maironi  hesitated  an  instant  before  answering— 

"No." 

"Why  did  you  stop  to  think?  Now  I  know  you 
think  ill  of  me.  What  did  you  really  wish  to  say? 
you  only  said  '  No '  out  of  pity.  You  have  the 


In  the  Monastery  95 

same  opinion  of  me  that  many  of  your  precious 
peasants  have!" 

He  was  aware  of  the  infamous  calumnies  con- 
cerning Jeanne  Dessalle  that  had  been  spread  by 
some  fool  or  some  thoughtless  tale-bearer,  and  he 
now  protested  so  indignantly,  so  warmly,  that  her 
eyes  brightened  with  the  sweetest  of  smiles. 

"Indeed,  I  am  not  wicked.  I  am  very  good," 
she  said  in  a  sorrowful  voice,  with  an  aggrieved 
look,  and  she  made  a  little  pouting  grimace,  like 
a  peevish  child.  "  Only  I  cannot  hide  what  I  feel. 
I  could  not  hide  my  liking  for  you  that  first  day. 
And  I  do  wrong,  I  have  always  done  wrong,  to  thus 
betray  my  feelings,  for  you  are  a  proud  man,  and 
wish  to  win  the  love  of  a  proud  woman  by  force. 
But  I  am  humble,  and  so  you  do  not  care  for  me." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Signora  Dessalle  had 
spoken  thus  boldly  to  Piero  Maironi.  The  first 
time  she  had  shown  him  this  side  of  her  nature 
had  been  at  Villa  Diedo,  in  the  little  lonely  grove 
that  slopes  down  the  hillside  towards  the  silence 
of  a  narrow,  deserted  valley.  She  had  then  told 
him  that  she  thought  him  so  different  from  other 
men,  so  much  better;  that  she  was  happy  in  his 
company,  but  that  the  anticipation  of  his  visits 
always  unnerved  her;  that  she  felt  very  timid  in 
his  presence,  and  that  she  dared  to  tell  him  these 
things  because  she  knew  he  was  a  saint.  Maironi, 
who  was  then  unacquainted  with  her  character, 
believed  this  was  merely  a  caprice,  a  premeditated 
act  of  provocation,  and  was  sure  she  would  learn 


96  The   Sinner 

to  despise  him  for  his  reserve.  Later,  however, 
he  saw  that  Jeanne  did  not  despise  him  in  the 
least;  that  she  was  fiercely  sincere,  fiercely  im- 
patient of  sensual  caprice,  and  he  was  ashamed  of 
himself,  ashamed  of  his  unworthy  suspicion, 
feeling  his  own  moral  inferiority. 

"Speak!"  she  insisted,  for  the  young  man  did 
not  answer. 

Suddenly  her  eyes  flashed.  "What  is  it?"  she 
cried.  "  What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"  Nothing.  There  is  nothing  wrong  with  me. 
What  should  the  matter  be?" 

Piero  answered  with  a  smile  so  forced  that 
Jeanne's  pale  face  at  once  assumed  a  look  of 
anguish,  of  indescribable  tenderness. 

"  Has  something  happened  ?  What  is  it  ?  Speak ! " 
And  she  seized  his  arm. 

"Be  careful!  The  custodian!"  Piero  whispered, 
terrified. 

"  No,  no.  He  is  not  here.  He  has  gone  to  get 
the  keys  to  the  refectory.  Speak!  Speak!" 

"But  your  brother  will  be  here  presently!" 

"I  don't  care!"  the  woman  cried.  "Tell  me 
what  has  happened!" 

Her  violence  wounded  Maironi.  "Nothing," 
said  he  firmly.  "  Nothing  has  happened.  I  have 
formed  a  resolution,  that  is  all." 

"What  resolution?" 

The  custodian  appeared  with  the  keys. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  Piero  replied.  But  what  did 
she  care  for  that  man's  presence?  A  movement 


In  the  Monastery  97 

of  haughty  commiseration  showed  in  her  troubled 
eyes  and  raised  eyebrows.  How  could  great  love 
stoop  to  these  petty  acts  of  prudence? 

"Lead  the  way,"  she  said  to  the  custodian. 
"Open  the  doors,  and  we  will  follow  you  pres- 
ently." And  heedless  of  the  man,  who  stood 
grumbling,  and  did  not  obey,  she  turned  to  Piero. 
"What  resolution?"  said  she. 

"A  resolution  I  shall  impart  to  you  sometime, 
but  not  now." 

"  Why?     Is  it  going  to  pain  me?" 
"  I  beg  you  not  to  talk  of  it  at  present." 
"  How  can  I  help  talking  of  it?     Oh,  you  don't 
understand  anything!" 

The  bitter  words  were  followed  by  a  quickly  re- 
pressed impulsive  movement  of  her  beautiful 
person  as  she  leaned  forward  for  an  instant, 
trembling  with  love,  despairing  love  shining  upon 
her  face,  and  in  her  humble  glance. 

' '  Oh !  This  is  enchanting !  This  is  a  paradise ! ' ' 
It  was  Carlino  Dessalle  who  spoke  thus  enthusi- 
astically from  the  threshold  behind  Piero.  "  My 
dear  Maironi,"  said  he,  "listen  to  this  fancy  of 
mine.  Praglia  is  the  dream  of  a  chaste  and  holy 
old  man,  who  has  supped  off  olives  and  pome- 
granates, and  has  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  one  of 
Bach's  preludes — not,  however,  as  you  would  be 
lulled  to  sleep  by  it!  I  think  I  may  venture  to 
affirm  that  his  beverage  has  consisted  only  of 
distilled  water." 

"You  have  seen  nothing  as  yet,"  said  Maironi. 


98  The  Sinner 

"Good  Lord!  How  very  precise  these  mayors 
are!  Nothing,  you  say?  I  saw  nothing  indeed 
when  I  drove  up  here,  because  I  was  afraid  of 
catching  some  complaint,  thanks  to  the  caprices 
of  this  sister  of  mine,  who  likes  a  fur  cloak  but 
likes  the  rain  and  the  wind  as  well,  and,  above  all, 
because  she  was  simply  insufferable,  and  tor- 
mented me  all  the  way,  accusing  me  of  having 
occasioned  a  delay  which,  it  would  appear,  might 
cause  the  sky  to  fall  and  the  earth  to  pass  away! 
But  coming  up  on  foot  just  now  I  received  the 
coup  de  foudre!  One  glance  was  enough,  you  see. 
The  battlemented  tower,  and  that  divine  little 
balcony  that  leans  over  towards  it,  way  up  in 
the  air — oh,  of  course  you  two  did  not  even  notice 
it! — like  a  greeting  from  the  genius  of  the  Abbey, 
who  could  not  depart  with  the  friars;  and  that 
dark,  fifteenth  century  church,  so  large  and  solid 
in  the  elegance  of  its  lines,  firmly  planted  up  aloft 
upon  that  square  heap  of  great  rocks,  that  are 
stowed  away  there  like  so  many  forgotten  tomes 
from  the  pens  of  theologians,  doctors  and  Fathers ! 
All  that  made  my  heart  beat  faster;  at  least  I 
felt  something  beat  faster  down  in  that  direction, 
for  my  sister  is  not  at  all  sure  I  have  a  heart,  and  I 
myself  do  not  care  whether  I  have  or  not!  And 
then  observe  the  massiccith — let  the  word  pass, 
it  is  of  my  own  coining — the  Tuscan  massiveness  of 
this  foundation,  of  this  church  wedded  to  this  hill 
so  Tuscan  in  appearance,  of  which  only  the  cap 
of  forest  above  the  olive-groves  is  wild,  but  still 


In  the  Monastery  99 

so  gentle  in  its  movements,  so  serious,  so  incap- 
able of  assuming  any  uncouth  attitude!  It  is 
indeed  an  ideal  spot  for  meditation,  with  these 
rows  of  low  cypresses  like  processions  of  little 
friars,  rather  bornes,  to  be  sure,  but  simple  and 
pious,  in  fact  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the  hill  it- 
self, which  exhibits,  in  its  lofty  and  ample  body,  the 
humility  of  profound  devotion  to  the  church  which 
lies  below  it,  but  which,  nevertheless,  seems  to 
soar  above  it,  to  dominate  it.  All  this  touched 
shall  we  say  my  lungs,  little  sister? — for  I  hope  I 
have  a  pair  of  lungs — and  I  gave  utterance  to  such 
a  string  of  oh!  ohs!  that  I  was  breathless  for  five 
minutes  afterwards." 

"  You  seem  to  have  got  your  breath  again  now," 
said  Jeanne. 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  am  all  right  now. — And  here  again, 
this  sublime  little  courtyard,  this  pure  thought 
transformed  into  a  dream!  Observe  the  extreme 
grace  of  the  narrow  frieze,  look  at  the  terra-cotta 
cornice,  the  small  trilobate  arches,  the  symbolic 
pomecitrons,  and  those  tiny  shells  drawn  up  in 
line  like  the  beads  of  an  ancient  rosary!  Now  I 
have  it !  That  saintly  old  man  of  mine  probably  had 
pomecitrons  and  not  pomegranates  for  supper.  And 
observe  the  grace  even  in  what  is  colossal !  Look 
at  that  tower  that  dominates  without  overpower- 
ing. Oh,  let  us  allow  our  gratitude  to  soar  upward 
towards  the  supreme  font  of  all  forms  of  beauty!" 

"Carlino,"  his  sister  exclaimed,  "don't  play 
Carucci  too  long!" 


ioo  The   Sinner 

"Nonsense — Carucci!  Carucci  is  a  monolith 
while  I  am  made  up  of  numberless  elements. 
Carucci  has  only  one  note  while  I  have  a  hundred. 
Carucci  is  an  intellectual  hypocrite.  He  has 
sentimentalised  so  long  over  the  beautiful  that 
now  he  really  believes  he  is  sincere.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  he  appreciates  only  blue  wine,  goats'  cheese 
and  good  cooks!  Let  me  have  my  say,  if  you 
please.  Carucci  is  not,  as  am  I,  who  do  not  write, 
a  mirror  reflecting  things  of  many  colours.  An 
ever-changing  mirror,  now  flat,  now  concave,  now 
convex!  Carucci  finds  the  mirror  only  in  the 
object,  and  sees  only  himself  reflected  in  it;  him- 
self he  sees  everywhere.  Do  let  me  express  my 
opinion! — Here  we  surely  have  the  coat-of-arms 
of  the  monastery.  A  star.  Most  appropriate!" 

And  Carlino  Dessalle,  his  eye-glass  screwed  into 
his  right  eye,  raised  his  exceedingly  long,  slim  nose 
and  his  dark,  wizened,  but  striking  face  towards 
the  coat-of-arms  of  the  monastery  which  was 
carved  above  a  door,  while  his  sister  took  Maironi's 
arm. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  she,  and  they  joined  the 
custodian,  wrho  seemed  rooted  to  the  spot  where 
he  still  stood  waiting,  by  the  door  giving  access 
to  the  great  stairway. 

Although  Dessalle  was  examining  the  star  he 
saw  her  action,  and  his  brow  became  clouded.  He 
considered  this  sister  of  his,  who  was  his  senior, 
the  most  beautiful  and  fascinating  of  women,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  also  believed  that  her  soul 


In  the  Monastery  101 

was  of  the  most  lofty,  and  her  judgment  the 
soundest  in  the  world.  It  seemed  strange  to  him 
that  his  men  friends  should  not  all  fall  in  love  with 
her,  and  it  seemed  natural  that  she  should  at  last 
be  moved  somewhat  by  the  love  of  one  or  another, 
but  he  had  never  dreamt  that  she  might,  by  word 
or  action,  forget  her  own  dignity,  even  for  an 
instant.  Now  he  was  beginning  to  believe  this 
possible,  and  he  was  secretly  much  troubled.  He 
could  understand  that  his  sister  should  cherish 
a  great  liking  for  Maironi,  whom  he  himself  es- 
teemed most  highly,  in  spite  of  the  difference  in 
their  views.  He  understood  less  readily  why  she 
should  take  so  little  pains  to  hide  her  feelings  while 
Maironi,  although  perhaps  he  also  was  in  love, 
knew  how  to  dissimulate.  He  had  at  first  opposed 
this  excursion  to  Praglia  and  had  finally  yielded 
only  because  he  feared  Jeanne  would  go  alone; 
and  now  he  was  annoyed  that,  not  satisfied  with 
having  run  after  Maironi,  she  should  thus  attach 
herself  to  him,  even  when  he,  Carlino,  was  present. 
He  called  her  back  to  look  at  the  coat-of-arms, 
and  the  tone  in  which  he  summoned  her  was  very 
peremptory.  Jeanne  dropped  Maironi's  arm  and 
reluctantly  retraced  her  steps.  Maironi  did  not 
follow  her. 

"  Vergisst  mein  nicht!"  said  Carlino  in  an  under- 
tone, accentuating  the  /  that  marks  the  plural. 

She  raised  her  face  with  an  expression  of  annoy- 
ance, and  examined  the  star,  murmuring: 

"  Rest  assured  I  know  how  to  behave  myself! " 


102  The  Sinner 

Carlino,  who  was  really  greatly  pleased  that  she 
had  understood  him,  now  protested  that  he  did  not 
mean  that.  What  an  idea!  Nothing  of  the  sort! 

Meanwhile  Maironi  was  not  contemplating  the 
double  row  of  slender  arches  beneath  the  graceful 
brow  formed  by  the  terra-cotta  cornices,  nor  the 
tower  soaring  upwards  as  in  the  act  of  mediation 
between  the  cloister  and  the  sky ;  he  was  gazing  at 
the  living  disorder  and  rioting  in  the  courtyard,  of 
the  grasses  that  seemed  drunk  with  the  spring.  He 
contemplated  the  grasses,  his  troubled,  aching 
heart  full  of  that  offer  of  immense  love,  full  of  the 
idea  that  perhaps  God  did  not  exist,  or,  at  least, 
that  He  was  different  from  the  God  of  the  Christ- 
ian faith,  since  in  remuneration  of  so  many 
prayers,  penances,  and  struggles  He  should  allow 
him  to  be  tempted  thus  and  at  such  a  moment. 

"You  are  fond  of  flowers?  Those  white  ones 
are  lilies,  are  they  not?  And  the  yellow  ones  are 
dandelions?  But  what  are  the  pale  blue  ones? 
Listen  to  this  fancy  that  has  occurred  to  me  con- 
cerning them.  Don't  all  these  flowers  look  as  if 
they  knew  the  stern  friars  and  their  greedy 
donkeys  are  no  longer  here,  that  there  are  no 
more  commandments,  or  precepts,  and  so  they 
have  come  wriggling  out  of  that  old  trough  over 
yonder  in  the  centre,  and  are  making  love 
merrily  all  over  the  place?  What  do  you  say 
to  that?  " 

Dessalle  longed  for  at  least  one  word  of  apprecia- 
tion of  his  pretty  whim,  and  so  placed  a  finger  on 


In  the  Monastery  103 

Maironi's  shoulder.  Maironi  started  and  answered 
at  random: 

"Certainly!" 

On  the  great  eighteenth-century  stairway  that 
leads  to  the  spacious  corridors  flanked  by  cells, 
while  the  custodian  was  pointing  out  the  tablets 
commemorating  the  imperial  Austrian  visits  of 
Francis  I  and  Ferdinand  I,  and  Dessalle  was 
groaning  as  if  oppressed  by  the  combined  weight 
of  tablets  and  stairway,  the  sister  once  more  took 
Maironi's  arm,  and  murmured  anxiously: 

"Do  not  forsake  me!" 

He  did  not  speak,  but  unconsciously  pressed 
Jeanne's  arm  with  his  own,  and  then,  terrified  at 
what  he  had  done,  immediately  relaxed  his 
pressure.  Her  eyes,  which  had  lighted  up  with 
pleasure,  now  questioned  him  despairingly. 

Then,  swayed  by  the  dual  workings  of  his  will, 
and  by  an  evil  inward  impulse,  he  spoke  words  he 
did  not  intend  to  speak,  words  he  knew  would 
mark  the  beginning  of  his  defeat. 

"  I  will  tell  you  presently." 

They  were  passing  down  one  of  the  corridors 
leading  to  the  small,  jutting  balcony  that  over- 
looks the  dark  approaches  of  the  monastery,  the 
side  of  the  church,  the  great  plain  on  the  north, 
stretching  away  to  the  distant,  snowy  Alps.  They 
did  not  hear  the  custodian,  who  was  calling  to 
them: 

"Signori,  this  way!" 

Dessalle  shouted :  "  Jeanne ! ' '   Then  they  turned, 


104  The  Sinner 

and  Carlino  informed  his  sister  that  a  happy 
thought  had  just  occurred  to  him.  As  the  Gov- 
ernment, with  its  Superior  Committee  of  Fine 
Arts,  its  lists  of  national  monuments,  its  cataracts 
of  ministerial  rhetoric,  its  protective  commissions, 
which  protect  nothing  and  destroy  everything,  was 
allowing  such  a  jewel  as  this  to  decay  and  perish, 
it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  purchase  it  and  convert 
it  into  a  new  sort  of  monastery  for  artists  and 
poets,  who  should  be  bound  together  by  a  com- 
mon appreciation  of  art,  and  who,  having  reached 
the  age  of  wisdom,  should  have  become  indifferent 
to  honours  and  love. 

"Let  us  visit  the  cells,"  said  Jeanne.  But 
Dessalle  declared  that  he  would  never  dream  of 
putting  his  foot  inside  one  of  those  cells  unless  he 
could  be  preceded  by  an  extra  strong  solution  of 
corrosive  sublimate. 

"  I  am  especially  apprehensive  of  monkish 
germs,"  said  he.  "Go  in  if  you  like,  but  don't 
stay  long!" 

They  entered  one  of  the  cells.  As  soon  as  the 
custodian  {iad  once  more  stepped  outside,  believ- 
ing they  would  follow  him,  Jeanne  stopped. 

"Well?"  said  she. 

Maironi  no  longer  wished  to  tell  her  anything. 
In  her  indignation  she  went  to  the  little  window, 
and  spoke  in  an  undertone,  as  she  gazed  out  upon 
the  fields: 

"  You  are  heartless !  You  are  selfish!  It  pleases 
you  to  know  I  am  in  love  with  you,  but  you  are 


In  the  Monastery  105 

afraid  of  compromising  yourself.  You  would  like 
to  be  able  to  speak  and  still  be  silent ;  you  try  to 
advance  and  withdraw  at  the  same  time ;  but  you 
are  careful  never  to  advance  far  enough  to  en- 
danger yourself,  and  never  to  withdraw  far  enough 
to  offend  me!  You  are  odious!  despicable!" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  The  suffering 
in  those  sorrowful  eyes,  those  pursed  and  tightly 
pressed  lips,  finally  produced  a  revulsion  of  gentle- 
ness and  pleading. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  without  drawing  nearer  to  her, 
"  despicable,  above  all,  in  my  own  eyes,  My  first 
resolution  was  to  bury  myself  for  ever  in  a  monk's 
cell." 

"Where?  Here?"  said  Signora  Dessalle  mock- 
ingly. "That  was  your  first  resolution.  What 
may  your  second  have  been?" 

The  custodian  once  more  entered  the  cell, 
jingling  his  keys  and  saying  that  the  lady's 
husband  wanted  her.  Both  Maironi  and  Jeanne 
understood  what  the  man  had  thought  of  them. 
To  the  woman  it  mattered  not  at  all.  Maironi 
felt  he  had  taken  one  step  forward  on  the  dark 
road  leading  to  his  surrender  to  passion. 

"  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  you  must  be 
reciting  the  evening  prayers,"  said  Dessalle  rather 
sharply.  His  sister  replied  that  she  had  indeed 
experienced  a  certain  inclination  to  enter  a  mon- 
astery while  in  the  cell,  and  that  Maironi  had 
felt  himself  divinely  summoned  to  assume  the 
duties  of  sacristan  to  the  convent.  Knowing  how 


io6  The  Sinner 

incapable  she  was  of  hiding  the  traces  of  a  different 
emotion  under  an  affectation  of  flippancy,  Carlino 
laughed  and  returned  to  his  fantastic  love-making 
with  the  monastery,  to  the  pleasure  of  endowing  it 
with  new  and  imaginary  beauties  to  be  enjoyed 
first  by  himself  alone,  and  to  the  delight  of  present- 
ing these  intellectual  caprices  of  his  in  a  strange 
form,  and  surrounded  by  his  own  cerebral  at- 
mosphere. He  had  compared  the  monastery  to 
a  dream,  and  like  that  unknown  Carucci  from 
whom  he  believed  he  differed  so  vastly,  he  was 
continually  seeing  his  own  dreams,  his  own 
aesthetic  fancies  reflected  in  it.  He  revelled  in 
certain  exquisite  details,  which  spoke  to  him  of 
his  favourite  quattrocento,  but  to  the  true  soul  of 
the  venerable  abbey,  that  animates  every  stone 
with  a  holy  thought,  to  the  soul  praying  there  in 
the  solitude  with  the  majesty  of  greatness  that  is 
conscious  of  gradual  dissolution  in  God,  he  ad- 
dressed no  question,  nor  did  it  speak  to  him.  It 
was  equally  silent  with  Signora  Dessalle.  Jeanne, 
who  had  a  keen  understanding  of  all  artistic 
matters,  had  not  given  one  thoughtful  glance  to 
this  magnificent  architecture,  but  had  wandered 
at  random,  her  thoughts  and  senses  bound  up  in 
Maironi's  presence.  Maironi  himself  felt  that  her 
flippant  language  concerning  the  vocation  might 
perhaps  have  been  intended  as  a  slight  thrust  at 
him,  but  it  had  certainly  also  been  meant  as  a 
handful  of  dust  in  her  brother's  eyes,  and  she  had 
thus  shown  that  she  took  his,  Maironi's,  com- 


In  the  Monastery  107 

pHcity  for  granted.  At  first  his  blood  surged  with 
a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  thought,  but  then  came 
the  revulsion  to  annoyance.  When  his  com- 
panions, who  were  preceding  him,  had  passed 
through  a  doorless  opening  and  turned  from  the 
corridor  into  the  hanging  courtyard,  and  he,  who 
was  at  some  distance  behind  them,  found  himself 
confronted  by  that  bright  space,  that  square 
surrounded  by  severe  arches  into  which  the  sun 
poured  freely  beneath  the  pinnacle  between  the 
four  columns,  with  the  well-head  in  the  centre, 
and  the  tabernacle  jutting  from  an  angle  of  the 
refectory,  then  the  spirit  of  the  monastery  arrested 
him.  Absorbed  in  his  own  drama,  the  young 
man  had  indeed  forgotten  that  he  was  at  Praglia. 
Suddenly  he  recognised  the  bright  space,  the 
square  surrounded  by  arches,  the  well-head  in 
the  centre,  the  little  tabernacle  on  the  corner 
of  the  refectory.  He  shuddered  and  stopped. 
It  was  the  scene  of  that  inexplicable  emotion, 
of  that  mysterious  presence  he  had  twice  felt,  at 
a  distance  of  years.  The  sunlight,  growing  ever 
stronger,  was  shedding  its  increasing  brilliancy 
upon  the  austere  stones  that  formed  the  pavement 
of  the  courtyard  and  the  faces  of  the  arches, 
and  they  seemed  to  be  glowing  with  internal  life, 
sensibility  and  words.  On  the  first  occasion 
the  Spirit  of  the  monastery  had  filled  the  lad  with 
longings,  on  the  second  it  had  over-whelmed 
the  man  with  reproaches,  now  it  mutely  repulsed 
him. 


io8  The   Sinner 

"Maironi!  What  are  you  about,  my  dear  fel- 
low? Come  here.  There  are  some  wonderful 
things  here." 

Dessalle  dragged  Piero  out  to  the  loggia  and 
pointed  out  to  him  the  dark  crests  of  the  hills  that 
rose  abruptly  behind  the  roof  of  the  opposite 
loggia. 

"  You  must  admit  that  Praglia  is  the  Abbey  of 
Morgante,  of  my  divine  Morgante!  That  is  the 
'hill  of  the  giants!'  What  were  you  thinking 
about  just  now?  You  must  not  desert  us,  you 
know!  Pray  consider  that  Countess  Importance 
and  her  daughters  were  to  have  come  to  Villa 
Diedo  this  afternoon,  and  that  we  ran  away  from 
them  for  your  sake!" 

Piero  had  often  laughed  with  Carlino  at  this 
strange  nickname  which  a  certain  lady,  with 
whom  both  were  well  acquainted,  had  bestowed 
upon  a  gentlewoman  of  the  town,  of  whose 
daughters  it  was  rumoured  that  they  had  made  a 
brave  onslaught  upon  Carlino's  celibacy. 

"Not  for  your  sake,  for  the  sake  of  Praglia!" 
Jeanne  corrected  without  looking  round. 

"Come,  come!  Don't  be  too  hard  on  him, 
sister  mine!"  Dessalle  exclaimed,  stopping  to 
make  a  sketch  in  his  note-book  of  a  graceful  door 
beneath  the  arches  on  the  east. 

Maironi  joined  Signora  Dessalle,  who  took  no 
notice  of  him.  They  walked  on  a  few  steps  side 
by  side,  without  speaking. 

"Yes,  indeed,  you  are  afraid!"  Jeanne  said  at 


In  the  Monastery  109 

last  in  a  low  but  ringing  voice.  "You  will  not 
confess  it,  but  I  am  well  aware  you  have  a  base 
opinion  of  me  in  spite  of  all  your  religion.  And 
it  is  precisely  because  you  have  a  poor,  false  idea 
of  religion,  of  love,  of  me — of  me  especially — that 
you  imagine  I  shall  lead  you  into  sin.  That  is  it; 
you  do  not  know  me;  you  are  incapable  of  know- 
ing me.  You  believe  that  outside  of  your  religion 
everything  is  impure  and  false,  and  must  be 
shunned  and  hated." 

"Do  you  know  that  I  am  not  free?" 

Piero  stopped  as  he  uttered  these  words.  The 
mad  woman  had  never  before  been  mentioned  by 
either. 

Jeanne  looked  steadily  into  his  eyes,  and 
answered : 

"I  know." 

A  moment  later,  interpreting  Piero's  silence  as  a 
wish  to  spare  her  a  bitter  and  obvious  conclusion, 
she  added  hastily  and  incautiously: 

"  But  I  do  not  deprive  your  wife  of  anything!" 

The  words  might  be  understood  as  Jeanne  had 
really  meant  them,  knowing,  as  she  did,  that 
Piero  had  long  since  ceased  to  love  his  wife,  or 
they  might  be  understood  as  meaning  that,  owing 
to  Signora  Maironi's  condition,  there  was  nothing 
left  to  deprive  her  of.  This  last  interpretation 
flashed  upon  Piero.  "Do  not  say  that!"  he 
exclaimed  hotly,  and  started  forward  excitedly. 
Jeanne  followed  him,  much  alarmed.  "How? 
What  did  you  understand?"  And  having  finally 


no  The  Sinner 

grasped  the  cause  of  his  indignation,  she  protested 
so  violently  that  she  had  not  intended  to  allude 
to  his  wife's  misfortune,  and  was  so  regardless  of 
his  repeated  exclamations :  "  Pray  leave  me!  Pray 
leave  me!"  that  he  was  at  last  obliged  to  yield. 
Meanwhile,  both  had  been  unconsciously  and  un- 
intentionally approaching  one  of  the  gates  of  the 
courtyard.  The  custodian,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing Carlino  sketch,  now  called  out  to  them: 
"  Signori!  Signori!  Are  you  not  going  to  visit  the 
refectory?"  They  slowly  retraced  their  steps. 
"I  believe  you,"  said  Maironi,  his  voice  hoarse 
with  emotion,  "but  I  cannot  go  on  like  this!  It 
will  be  better  for  me  to  go  away,  not  only  from 
you,  but  from  everything;  from  everything  I  can 
possibly  leave  behind.  That  was  my  second 
resolution." 

"Wait!"  said  Jeanne.  To  rid  herself  of  the 
custodian  she  asked  him  to  fetch  her  a  glass  of 
water,  then  she  glanced  at  her  brother,  who  was 
still  drawing,  and  returning  to  Piero  said:  "Come 
with  me,"  and  drew  him  into  the  little  loggia  that 
juts  out  near  the  refectory,  and  overlooks  the 
kitchen-gardens;  she  advanced  with  him  as  far 
as  the  parapet  between  the  arches  that  face  the 
boundless  plain  on  the  east,  acting  throughout  with 
promptness  and  energy. 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  began  rapidly,  flinging 
herself  upon  the  parapet.  "There  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  avoid  me,  no  reason  why  you 
should  fear  me.  You  do  not  know  the  nature  of 


In  the  Monastery  in 

my  sentiment  for  you,  you  do  not  know  my  soul. 
In  my  innermost  heart  I  live  for  you  only.  I  have 
always  loved  my  brother  in  a  motherly  way,  and 
I  still  love  him  dearly  with  a  sense  of  maternal 
duty.  I  might  almost  say  my  whole  external 
life  still  belongs  to  him,  that  I  would  even,  if 
necessary,  be  ready  to  sacrifice  to  his  interests  the 
joy  of  seeing  you.  But  my  inner  life,  the  life 
that  is  independent  of  my  will,  belongs  to  you.  If 
I  speak  thus  frankly  and  openly  it  is  because  my 
feeling  for  you  contains  nothing  that  must  be 
concealed,  nothing  that  can  cause  me  shame, 
nothing  that  should  alarm  you,  and  also  because 
I  have  great  confidence  in  you.  I  ask  for  affection 
only,  the  rest  is  loathsome  to  me.  This  is  perhaps 
owing  to  the  coldness  of  my  nature,  or  to  pride ;  it 
may  be  the  result  of  the  six  months  I  spent  with  a 
vicious  husband — for  you  are  aware  that  I  myself 
am  not  free — it  may  be  accounted  for  by  any  one 
of  these  causes,  but  the  fact  remains  that  I  ask 
only  for  tenderness  and  affection.  If  you  were 
tormented  by  evil  imaginings  I  feel  that  I  should 
purify  your  soul  rather  than  debase  it.  I  should 
purify  it  more  thoroughly  than  fasting  and  prayers 
in  the  desert,  for  with  the  idea  of  fighting  the 
enemy  we  must  of  necessity  go  forth  to  meet  him, 
and  no  matter  where  you  might  wander  you 
would  always  be  followed  by  evil  thoughts  about 
me;  in  your  mind  I  should  become  another  being, 
become  what  I  am  not,  a  corruptress.  But 


ii2  The  Sinner 

Here  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  continued 
in  a  lower  tone: 

"  I  need  your  love,  need  it  immensely,  immeas- 
urably! I  shall  fall  into  hopeless  despair  if  you 
leave  me.  I  shall  sink  into  the  depths  of  misery ! 
Tell  me  you  love  me!  Tell  me  you  will  not  leave 
me!  Do  not  kill  me  with  grief!" 

"  Signora,  here  is  the  water,"  said  the  custodian 
behind  them. 

Jeanne  rose  from  the  parapet,  deathly  pale,  her 
eyes  red  with  weeping,  and  took  the  glass. 

"Si  c'etait  du  poison,"  said  she  turning  to 
Maironi,  "  faudrait-il  boire?" 

Her  great,  magnetic  eyes  were  brimming  with 
grief  and  infinite  tenderness. 

"  Je  crois  que  non,"  he  murmured  in  spite  of  him- 
self, his  mind  in  a  whirl,  and  his  face  as  pale  as  if 
life  were  extinct  within  him. 

In  Jeanne's  eyes  there  flashed  the  light  of  an 
ineffable  smile.  "This  water  is  not  clear,"  she 
said  to  the  astonished  custodian.  Then,  holding 
the  glass  beyond  the  parapet,  and  slowly,  very 
slowly,  pouring  out  the  water  to  the  last  drop, 
she  watched  it  with  a  smile,  murmuring:  "What 
joy!  What  joy!  What  joy!" 


It  seemed  then  as  if  her  eyes  were  suddenly 
opened  to  her  surroundings.  She  left  Piero  and 
took  her  brother's  arm  affectionately;  she  wished 
to  examine  his  sketch ;  suggested  his  sketching  the 


In  the  Monastery  113 

hill  that  rose  behind  the  loggia,  but  from  a  more 
advantageous  point  of  view,  which  she  crossed  and 
re-crossed  the  courtyard  in  search  of;  she  got  him 
to  explain  th.^  meaning  of  the  inscription  of  the 
well-head — aestus,  sordes,  sitim  pulso — went  into 
ecstasies  over  the  magnificent  lavabo  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  refectory ;  drew  Carlino  into  the  little 
loggia  above  the  kitchen-gardens,  and  pointed 
out  to  him  the  green  sea  of  plains  stretching  away 
as  far  as  the  towers  and  cupolas  of  a  distant  city, 
showing  humble  and  dark  against  the  horizon. 
From  that  spot,  and  only  from  that  spot  did  she 
glance  with  infinite  sweetness  at  Maironi.  Then 
turning  towards  the  loggia  dominated  by  the 
nave  of  the  lofty  temple  and  by  the  campanile,  she 
imagined  the  scene  on  a  moonlight  night,  with  the 
silent  coming  and  going  of  the  monks,  passing 
from  the  light  into  the  shadow  beneath  the  arcades 
and  she  told  her  vision  in  a  hushed  voice,  a 
rapt  expression  on  her  face.  She  regretted  the 
disappearance  of  the  monks,  but  then,  glancing  at 
Piero,  she  boldly  expressed  it  as  her  opinion  that 
the  Catholic  spirit  of  to-day  was  no  longer  in 
harmony  with  the  poetry  of  this  solitude.  She 
maintained  that  the  present  Catholic  combative- 
ness  might  be  suited  to  convents  among  the  people, 
in  the  hearts  of  cities,  but  that  no  one  any  longer 
thought  of  dwelling  in  the  desert,  and  that 
although  Catholicism  was  antiquated  in  spirit,  it 
nevertheless  tended  towards  all  modern  forms  of 
action. 


ii4  The  Sinner 

"There  are  still  some  timorous  souls  in  the 
world,"  said  Carlino.  "  There  are  those  who  arc 
solitary  by  nature  like  myself,  for  example.  I  am 
in  reality  almost  a  Benedictine.  If  I  only  had 
faith  enough,  I  should  take  the  habit,  and  restore 
Praglia." 

"You?"  Maironi  exclaimed.  Jeanne's  chal- 
lenging words  concerning  the  spirit  of  Catholicism 
had  not  offended  him;  the  strange  connection 
between  Dessalle's  thoughtless  words  and  the 
sentiments  he  himself  had  entertained  so  short 
a  time  before,  did  not  move  him.  He  laughed  and 
his  eyes  sparkled.  While  Jeanne  had  been  telling 
him  of  her  love,  which  was  at  once  so  violent  and 
so  pure,  he  had  felt  that  she  was  insensibly  taking 
possession  of  him,  and  at  the  same  time,  the  idea 
was  also  encompassing  him  that  his  fears  were 
after  all,  only  dreams ;  that  the  restraints  of  religion, 
the  restraints  of  his  obligations,  were  only  the 
ties  of  things  that  were  dead;  that  perhaps,  the 
whole  of  Catholicism  even  was  only  a  great, 
spectral  corpse  which  still  stood  erect  like  the 
monastery.  The  hidden  workings  of  his  many 
past  temptations  against  faith,  which  had  always 
been  repressed  with  terror  but  never  conquered, 
were  now  becoming  apparent,  and  had  caused  his 
sudden  downfall  before  the  onslaught  of  passion. 

Hardly  had  he  pronounced  the  words,  "  Je  crois 
que  non" — and  he  had  pronounced  them  almost 
automatically — when,  like  one  who,  standing 
naked  on  the  shore,  tests  the  cool  current  with  his 


In  the  Monastery  115 

foot  and  then  hesitates,  but  who,  if  he  feel  him- 
self slipping  down  the  bank,  suddenly  gives  himself 
up  to  the  current,  so  had  he  given  himself  up  to  the 
sentiment  which  no  longer  appeared  to  him  in  the 
light  of  a  temptation,  but  as  the  offer  of  a  God 
greater,  kinder  and  more  true  than  the  God  his 
masters  had  taught  him  to  worship.  For  an 
instant  while  his  heart  had  hammered  furiously, 
the  walls,  the  arches,  the  columns  of  the  mon- 
astery, had  seemed  to  be  whirling  madly  around 
him.  He  had  felt  a  wild  longing  to  clasp  Jeanne's 
waist  and  drag  her  beyond  the  walls,  out  into  the 
open ;  to  race  across  the  grassy  fields,  through  the 
olive-groves,  over  the  hill-tops,  shouting  out  to  the 
sky  his  freedom  and  his  joy.  At  the  same  time 
he  had  laughed  inwardly  at  his  own  insane  long- 
ing, and,  trembling  lest  he  should  betray  himself, 
had  held  this  new,  intense  life  a  prisoner  within 
his  breast.  And  now  he  was  glad  Jeanne  was 
not  by  his  side ;  it  gave  him  extreme  delight  to  see 
her  apparently  separated  from  him,  knowing  as  he 
did  that  she  was  united  to  him  in  thought,  that 
she  was  indeed  inebriate  with  love  of  him.  Mean- 
while, breathing  deeply,  he  listened  to  the  dilating 
of  his  own  soul.  The  intense  sweetness  of  Jeanne's 
glance  from  the  little  loggia  where  the  water  had 
in  fancy  been  turned  into  poison,  once  more  caused 
everything  to  whirl  around  him  for  an  instant. 

"You?"  said  he  laughing.  "Such  a  worldly 
man  as  you  are?" 

"I  am  not  worldly,  my  dear  Maironi.     I   am 


n6  The  Sinner 

interested  in  the  study  of  worldly  vanities,  but  I 
myself  am  not  worldly,  just  as  an  astronomer 
is  not  necessarily  celestial." 

Jeanne  who  at  that  moment  was  carefully  exam- 
ining the  ornamentations  of  the  lavabo,  the  sea- 
fishes,  and  the  tarsia  in  verd-antique  and  porphyry, 
summoned  Maironi  to  her  side  by  a  gesture. 

"I  never  know  what  to  call  you,"  she  said 
softly,  and  added  aloud :  "  What  is  this  inscription? 
Please  explain  it  to  me." 

Piero  translated  the  Latin  motto  which  was 
carved  inside  the  arch,  above  the  marble  basin : 

OMNES  VELUT  AQUA  DILABIMUR, 

and  bending  forward  as  if  to  examine  the  ex- 
quisite marble,  he  whispered: 

"Call  me  'love.'" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  remained  with 
bowed  head  to  hide  his  burning  face. 

"Poor  little  friars!"  Dessalle  exclaimed  behind 
them.  "They  are  really  all  dead  and  gone,  are 
they  not?  But  look  here,  in  what  sense  is  that 
motto  to  be  taken?  It  must  be  epicurean,  sur- 
rounded by  all  that  joyous  ornamentation,  that 
smile  of  the  sceptical  cinquecento!  Let  us  eat, 
drink  and  enjoy  wrhile  we  may,  eh?" 

They  entered  the  refectory.  Jeanne,  absorbed 
in  her  own  beatitude,  glanced  absently  at  the 
whimsical  mottoes  entwined  amongst  symbolic 
carvings  above  each  one  of  the  wooden  stalls  that 
the  eighteenth  century  had  ranged  from  top  to 


In  the  Monastery  117 

bottom,  along  the  master  walls  of  the  square  hall, 
beneath  a  collection  of  large  pictures,  overcrowded 
with  huge  figures.  Dessalle,  who  was  delighted 
with  the  carvings  above  the  stalls  and  the  witty 
and  profound  mottoes,  left  Jeanne,  and  taking 
Maironi  with  him,  led  him  from  stall  to  stall, 
reading,  commenting  and  admiring  in  a  loud  voice. 
"Help  me,  Signor  Maironi!"  said  Jeanne.  "Car- 
lino  knows  Latin."  As  Maironi  was  coming  to- 
wards her,  drinking  in  the  sweet  invitation  that 
shone  in  those  lovely  eyes  fixed  upon  his,  she  said 
in  a  faltering  voice,  standing  beside  the  stall  above 
which  a  crescent  is  carved:  "What  does  com- 
pletur  cursu  mean?"  And  when  he  was  within  a 
few  steps  of  her  she  murmured  with  a  slight,  rapid 
uplifting  of  her  face  to  his,  the  trembling  word: 
"Love!" 

She  was  smiling  upon  him. 

Maironi  could  not  speak  immediately.  Then 
she  laughed  twice;  two  thin,  short  jets  of  laughter, 
like  jets  from  an  open  vein,  escaping  from  beneath 
the  pressure  of  the  thumb. 

"  It  means —  "  the  young  man  began,  and  was 
going  to  add:  "my  soul  turns  to  you,  and  is 
illumined  and  made  complete  by  your  light!" 
But  Jeanne  hastily  interrupted  him.  "  Never 
mind;  tell  me  you  love  me!  Do  you  really  love 
me?  Arrange  to  drive  back  to  town  with  us!" 

"Listen  to  this.  How  charming  for  a  well! 
The  words  are:  Exercita  purior!" 

"  What  does  that  mean  ? "  Jeanne  asked  Maironi, 


n8  The  Sinner 

for  the  custodian  was  standing  near  them.  When 
she  had  heard  the  explanation  she  said:  "  Did  no 
one  of  those  friars  ever  reflect  that  by  using  his 
intellect,  his  heart,  all  the  energy  for  good  that  was 
in  him,  outside  these  walls,  he  might  become  still 
more  pure,  still  more  healthy  of  soul?" 

"  And  this  one !  This  one ! "  cried  Dessalle.  "  A 
siren,  and  the  motto:  Dulcedine  perdit!" 

"  If  I  understand  correctly  that  is  no  new  senti- 
ment!" Jeanne  exclaimed  with  some  warmth. 
Maironi  was  silent.  Dessalle  called  the  custodian, 
and  inquired  who  the  fresco  of  the  Crucifixion 
was  by. 

"It  is  by  Bartolomo  Montagna,  a  native  of 
Vicenza." 

Dessalle  summoned  his  sister  and  Maironi  to 
come  and  admire  the  great  fresco.  They  came, 
but  were  unenthusiastic,  to  the  great  surprise  and 
indignation  of  Carlino.  They  did  not  like  the 
Christ  at  all,  and  in  the  other  figures  the  artist's 
best  manner  was  perceptible;  that  was  all. 

" But  look  at  the  Virgin!  I  am  willing  to  con- 
fess that  only  one  other  Madonna  in  the  whole 
field  of  art  has  ever  impressed  me  more  strongly 
than  this  one,  and  that  was  the  Virgin  by  Van 
Dyck  in  the  museum  at  Antwerp,  upon  whose  lap 
rests  the  dead  Christ,  while  she  lets  her  arms  fall 
at  her  sides  as  she  lifts  her  face  heavenwards — do 
you  remember,  Jeanne? — that  tearful  face  that 
says  so  plainly:  'Wherefore?' — This  Madonna  is 
finer  from  a  religious  point  of  view.  She  is  full 


In  the  Monastery  119 

of  courage,  she  believes  in  her  Son's  resurrection. 
Standing  before  this  picture  even  I  am  in  danger 
of  getting  a  slight  attack  of  the  fever  of  faith.  In 
that  case  you  would  admit  me  into  the  city  gov- 
ernment as  inspector  of  fine  arts,  would  you  not?" 
A  smile  flitted  across  Maironi's  face,  but  his  only 
answer  was:  "Very  well!" 


in 


They  left  together  at  sunset  in  the  same  carriage. 
Before  they  had  passed  beyond  the  enclosure,  and 
while  skirting  the  dark  bastion  that  supports  the 
church,  Dessalle  exclaimed:  "And  the  church! 
We  have  not  seen  it ! "  Upon  leaving  the  refectory 
the  custodian  had  twice  asked  Jeanne  and  Maironi 
if  they  wished  to  visit  the  church,  but,  receiving 
no  answer,  he  had  not  pressed  the  point.  And 
now  again  neither  Jeanne  nor  Maironi  spoke.  The 
carriage  was  advancing  rapidly,  and  the  right 
moment  was  allowed  to  pass.  Dessalle's  imag- 
ination was  busy  with  the  silent  monastery,  with 
the  solitude  which  surrounded  it,  its  cypresses  and 
olives,  its  small,  trilobate  arches,  its  escutcheons 
and  mottoes ;  busy  with  the  friars  of  long  ago,  with 
the  custodian  and  his  keys,  which,  in  that  deserted 
place,  seemed  to  be  jingling  out  the  strident  hymn 
of  triumph  of  the  spirit  of  modernity.  In  his 
highly  coloured  and  subtle  language  he  recalled 
every  particular,  seeking  for  strange  comparisons 
by  means  of  which  he  was  wont  to  fix  what  he  had 


120  The  Sinner 

seen  upon  his  mind,  that  it  might  become  part  of 
his  very  being,  and  more  entirely  his  own.  Pres- 
ently he  began  to  arrange  the  plot  of  a  novel  in 
which  Praglia,  offered  for  sale  by  the  Government, 
should  be  purchased  by  a  mystical  Pole,  who 
would  there  assemble  a  company  of  hysterical 
women  for  purposes  of  meditation  and  prayer,  and 
the  foundation  of  a  new  religion. 

"What  religion?"  Maironi  asked. 

"  Oh,  never  mind!  Just  a  new  religion.  Let  us 
say  my  own,  if  you  like.  Mine  is  the  religion  of 
,  doubt,  a  creed  which,  instead  of  forcing  us  to 
believe  what  we  cannot  possibly  know  anything 
about,  forbids  us  to  deny  it,  and  commands  us  to 
doubt,  for  doubt  is  far  more  useful  and  far  wiser 
than  faith,  because  it  predisposes  to  the  admission 
of  all  possibilities.  It  is  also  more  poetical." 

Maironi  burst  forth  with  unwonted  violence. 

"  No,  no !  Rather  let  us  be  all  for  or  all  against ! 
It  is  better  to  deny.  Affirm,  if  you  will,  that 
man  created  God  because  it  suited  his  convenience 
to  do  so!  Say  that  the  God  of  religion  is  only  a. 
mask  of  the  true  God,  and  that  you  will  not 
worship  a  mere  mask!  Or  declare  open  rebellion, 
and  say  that  the  gift  of  your  body  and  intelligence 
have  placed  under  you  no  obligations ;  that  you  are 
not  responsible  for  your  desire  for  life  and  liberty, 
but  that  you  demand  both.  Say  these  things  if 
you  will,  but  not  what  you  have  just  said." 

"Ah,  these  Catholics,  these  Catholics!"  Dessalle 
retorted,  smiling.  "  They  are  determined  to  make 


In  the  Monastery  121 

us  absolutely  impious!  The  nearer  we  draw  to 
you,  the  less  tolerant  you  become.  One  might 
really  maintain  that  your  religion  teaches  the 
hatred  of  one's  neighbours.  Just  see  how  you 
treat  the  Protestants,  and  those  poor  Liberals 
who  are  so  anxious  to  call  themselves  Catholics! 
All  hatred  of  one's  neighbours!" 

"  Nevertheless —  '  Jeanne  began,  turning  to- 
wards Maironi  as  if  intending  to  answer  him 
regardless  of  her  brother's  words.  But  she  sud- 
denly broke  off. 

"Nevertheless?"  Piero  repeated  expectantly. 

"Nothing,"  said  she. 

The  young  man  drew  up  the  white  rug  of 
Russian  wolf  which  was  slipping  from  Jeanne's 
knees  and  his  own,  and  as  he  tucked  it  into  place, 
he  met  beneath  it  a  hand  which  at  first  offered 
itself  timidly,  and  then  seized  his  as  in  a  vice, 
while  a  lovely  mouth  carelessly  let  fall  three  words 
that  restored  peace: 

"It  is  cold!" 

No  one  spoke  for  some  minutes.  Jeanne  in  her 
turn  arranged  the  rug,  and  much  more  success- 
fully. It  seemed  to  Maironi  that  this  ponderous 
skin  of  the  wild  beast  fell  into  folds  under  the 
touch  of  her  skilful  hands  as  if  conscious  of  her 
right  to  command.  He  looked  at  the  hand  he 
longed  to  clasp,  not  daring,  in  Dessalle's  presence, 
to  gaze  into  Jeanne's  eyes  without  speaking,  and 
he  could  find  no  word  to 'speak.  As  he  gazed  at 
the  hand  toying  with  the  fur,  it  seemed  to  answer, 


122  The  Sinner 

as  did  also  an  ill-concealed  smile :  "  Secret  pressures 
must  suffice!"  The  odour  of  the  cloak  which  en- 
veloped Jeanne's  lovely  person,  the  odour  of  the 
fur,  of  her  delicately  perfumed  gloves,  perhaps  also 
of  her  hair,  went  to  the  young  man's  head  in  one 
warm  wave,  alternating,  according  as  the  wind 
veered  and  the  horses  changed  their  pace,  with 
the  fresh  odour  of  the  fields  and  of  the  damp  road. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  encompassed  by  her 
dark,  sweet  atmosphere,  that  this  was  the  begin- 
ning of  secret  and  delicious  possession.  They 
passed  Don  Giuseppe's  villa  showing  white  in  the 
last  western  glow,  above  the  garden  that  was  full 
of  shadows.  Dessalle  thought  he  could  discern 
a  priest  sitting  on  the  front  steps,  and  concluded 
it  must  be  the  master  of  the  house.  He  said  he 
had  heard  him  most  highly  spoken  of,  and  asked 
Maironi  if  he  was  acquainted  with  him.  At  the 
same  moment  Jeanne,  who  had  not  been  listening 
to  her  brother's  remarks,  pointed  out  to  Maironi 
the  crescent  moon  hanging  in  the  eastern  sky. 
"Gompletur?"  said  she,  unable  to  recall  the  other 
word.  Maironi  did  not  appear  to  understand, 
and  she  repeated:  "  Completur  f  Tell  me  the 
other."  "Ah,  Cursu,  cursu!"  Desalle  exclaimed, 
and  did  not  repeat  his  question.  Meanwhile 
Jeanne's  hand  was  seeking  that  other  beloved 
hand  beneath  the  fur  rug,  and  was  saying,  with  a 
warm  pressure :  "  I  know  what  you  are  thinking 
about,  absent-minded  one!"  and  the  hand  she 
pressed  lied,  when  it  answered:  "Yes,  yes!  You 


In  the  Monastery  123 

know!"  Then  both  would  have  liked  to  remain 
silent,  but  Carlino  was  a  great  talker.  He  told 
Maironi  how  scandalised  his  sister  had  been  that 
he  should  have  recommended  that  gardener,  who 
was  a  splendid  specimen  of  a  Latin  socialist,  a 
real  revolutionist.,  indeed.  Several  of  the  man's 
sayings  having  come  to  Jeanne's  ears,  she  had 
proposed  dismissing  him,  but  Carlino  was  only 
too  delighted  to  keep  such  a  curious  and  savage 
animal  caged  in  his  garden.  The  animal,  however, 
would  not  allow  himself  to  be  studied;  he  had  a 
remarkably  smooth  and  inoffensive  shell  into 
which  he  was  wont  to  withdraw  whenever  his 
masters  approached  him.  Meanwhile  Jeanne  and 
Piero  were  conversing  secretly  through  their 
clasped  hands,  although  she  had  indeed  made  a 
feint  of  drawing  hers  away  very  gently,  and  they 
let  Carlino  talk  on  without  other  interruption 
than  an  occasional  laugh. 

Carlino  now  brought  forward  the  gardener's  son, 
Ricciotti  Pomato,  and  recommended  him  for  the 
position  of  porter  at  the  Library.  The  preceding 
year  another  had  been  appointed  in  his  stead,  but 
now  the  place  was  vacant  again.  To  rid  himself 
of  the  matter,  Maironi  promised  at  once.  But 
Carlino  was  indefatigable,  and  brought  the  con- 
versation round  to  Marchese  Scremin,  who  had 
persuaded  his  son-in-law  to  speak  to  the  Dessalles 
and  beg  them  to  further  his  senatorial  ambitions 
by  using  their  influence  with  a  certain  powerful 
and  intriguing  Roman  lady,  whose  friendship  for 


124  The  Sinner 

an  eminent  statesman,  an  uncle  of  the  Dessalles, 
was  well  known — a  friendship  presumably  honest, 
according  to  Zaneto,  but  of  a  most  ambiguous 
nature  according  to  the  world's  judgment.  He 
had  also  had  himself  presented  at  Villa  Diedo,  an 
act  which  had  provoked  the  bitter  man's  satanic 
sneer  and  the  comment:  '  Worldliness,  all  world- 
liness!"  Since  that  first  visit  he  had  called  upon 
them  two  or  three  times,  wearing  a  most  awe- 
inspiring  top-hat,  so  Carlino  said,  and,  like  the 
gardener,  armed  with  a  shell.  His  was  a  smooth 
and  unctuous  shell  of  humility,  within  which  he 
would  hastily  disappear,  head  foremost,  as  soon 
as  Jeanne  or  Carlino  essayed  to  sound  him  con- 
cerning those  merits  which  the  Government  would 
be  called  upon  to  recognise  in  him.  At  this  point 
Carlino  stretched  him  tenderly  upon  an  imaginary 
dissecting-table,  and  proceeded  to  examine  him 
in  search  of  the  aforenamed  merits.  Finally,  his 
companions  appearing  quite  oblivious  to  his 
chatterings,  he  also  lapsed  into  silence. 

A  slender  and  lofty  tower,  a  few  squat  campamli 
and  a  solid  mass  of  low  roofs  were  beginning  to 
rise  out  of  the  plain  in  front  of  the  carriage,  be- 
neath the  snowy  brows  of  the  distant  mountains. 
It  was  the  city,  the  dismal  end  of  the  expanse  of 
sky,  open  to  dreams  of  the  earth,  stretching  awray 
in  such  perfect  peace,  all  odorous  with  life  and 
freshness;  the  dismal  end  for  Jeanne  and  Piero  of 
this  soft  and  swift  onward  flight  while  they  sat 
silent,  thrilling  to  the  very  depths  of  their  being 


In  the  Monastery  125 

at  every  jolt  of  the  carriage  that  brought  shoulder 
gently  against  shoulder.  The  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  Dessalles'  stables  at  the  corner  of  that 
steep  and  narrow  road  that  leads  up  to  Villa  Diedo. 
There  w?,s  an  invitation  to  dinner  for  the  next 
day,  and  then  short  greetings,  already  warm  with 
the  thought  of  the  happy  morrow,  were  hastily 
exchanged.  As  Piero  was  alighting,  intending  to 
enter  the  city  on  foot,  the  coachman  informed 
him  that  he  had  a  small  basket  of  oranges  belong- 
ing to  the  Signor  Sindaco,  which  the  driver  of  the 
fly  had  entrusted  to  him.  Dessalle  now  ordered 
him  to  drive  Signor  Sindaco  to  Palazzo  Scremin. 
The  little  basket  of  oranges  was  placed  opposite 
Piero  on  the  movable  seat  of  the  victoria.  He 
understood  their  tragic  message,  but  remained  un- 
moved by  it.  It  might  perhaps  be  a  reproach  to 
fate,  but  not  to  him.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
golden  fruits,  his  senses  soothed  by  the  persistent 
perfume  of  the  woman  whose  seat  he  had  now 
taken.  Once  more  he  saw  Jeanne  in  the  loggia  at 
Praglia  with  the  glass  in  her  hand:  once  more  he 
basked  in  the  sadness  of  her  great,  magnetic  eyes, 
in  the  ineffable,  gentle  ring  of  those  soft-spoken 
words1  "Si  c'etait  du  poison,  faudrait-il  boire?" 


CHAPTER  III 

ECLIPSES 

i 

OEVERAL  town  councillors  of  the  clerical 
O  majority  were  to  meet  privately  at  the 
house  of  Doctor  Zdupa,  one  of  the  members,  at 
four  o'clock. 

At  five  minutes  to  three  a  very  gentle  ring  of 
the  bell  made  the  honest  councillor  start.  Two 
individuals,  a  priest  and  a  layman,  entered  with  a 
somewhat  mysterious  air.  The  layman  pulled  out 
his  watch,  and  said,  addressing  Z£upa:  "Will  that 
do?"  Smiling,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  making  a 
series  of  jerky  bows,  Zaupa  answered :  "  Most 
punctual!  Most  punctual!"  and  ushered  his 
visitors  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  parlour. 
The  priest,  a  short,  spare  man,  with  a  cunning 
face  and  eyes  full  of  mockery,  was  one  of  the  secret 
leaders  of  the  party,  one  of  the  three  or  four  who 
kept  in  the  background  and  moved  the  victorious 
black  pieces  on  the  chess-board  by  means  of  hidden 
wires.  The  other,  a  fine-looking  man  of  about 
forty,  of  gentlemanly  bearing,  and  with  an  in- 
telligent and  benevolent  countenance,  was  the 
Cavaliere  Soldini,  a  Lombard,  and  the  director 
of  the  clerical  newspaper. 

126 


Eclipses  127 

"Well?"  said  Zaupa. 

His  visitors  smiled,  and  looked  at  each  other  in 
tacit  interrogation.  "  You  speak,"  said  the  priest. 
Then,  as  his  colleague  demurred,  he  explained  to 
Zdupa  that  they  were  not  precisely  of  the  same 
opinion,  and  that  he  should  prefer  to  speak  last. 
Hereupon  Soldini  yielded,  and  began  his  discourse. 

"Well,  this  is  how  the  matter  stands.  You 
must  know  that  there  is,  unfortunately,  much 
truth  in  the  stories  that  are  being  circulated  con- 
cerning our  mayor  and  a  certain  lady.  There  is 
passion  on  both  sides,  and  a  passion  that  is  not 
silent." 

"No,  indeed!"  the  priest  interposed.  "Any- 
thing but  silent!  Kisses  and  embraces  in  the 
garden,  cor  am  populo!" 

"  We  may  say,  coram  nemori  et  lunae,  if  the  story 
be  true.  But,  after  all,  no  one  can  say  how  far— 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  grumbled  the 
priest.  "The  fact  remains,  coram  nemori,  lunae 
et  hortulano!" 

"Ah,  well!  To  me  it  does  not  indeed  seem  the 
same  thing,  but  let  us  proceed.  In  the  first  place 
I  wish  to  state  that  my  wife  and  I  are  on  friendly 
terms  with  the  mayor,  and  also  that  my  wife  calls 
upon  Signora  Dessalle,  with  whom  she  became 
acquainted  in  Rome." 

Zaupa  assented  obsequiously.  "I  quite  under- 
stand," said  he. 

The  priest,  who  was  listening  with  bowed  head, 
made  a  significant  grimace. 


128  The  Sinner 

"For  my  part,"  Cavaliere  Soldini  went  on,  "I 
shall  try  to  be  absolutely  impartial  and  frank  in 
treating  this  painful  subject.  No  one,  as  I  said 
before,  can  possibly  know  how  far  matters  have 
gone.  My  wife,  whose  insight  in  such  cases  is 
very  clear,  does  not  believe  the  worst,  and  I  also 
must  refuse  to  do  so." 

"That  is  right!  That  is  right!"  said  Zaupa 
with  great  satisfaction. 

"  Simple-minded  creatures !"  grumbled  the  priest, 
and  added  aloud:  "But  how  about  all  the  rest?" 

"Ah,  yes!  The  rest!  I  am  coming  to  that  pres- 
ently. However,  as  the  very  worst  is  maintained, 
I  should  not  feel  justified  in  hiding  the  fact  that 
the  most  poisonous  of  these  rumours— which  were, 
of  course,  immediately  seized  upon  and  rapidly 
spread  by  means  of  whispered  hints  full  of  hypo- 
critical prudence,  by  the  many  who  take  a  par- 
ticular delight  in  the  sins  of  such  as  have  been 
esteemed  sinless,  especially  if  they  be  clericals—- 
the most  poisonous  of  these  rumours,  I  say,  can 
all  be  traced  to  the  Dessalles'  kitchen-gardener, 
who  bears  an  ill-concealed  grudge  against  the 
head-gardener,  that  half -anarchist,  who  is  so 
devoted  to  the  mayor,  he  having  given  the  man's 
son  a  position  at  the  Library.  And  now  let  us 
proceed  to  examine  '  the  rest.'  The  rest  is  simply 
this,  that  last  Friday  the  Dessalles  gave  a  meat 
dejeuner  in  the  garden,  to  which  some  foreign 
friends  of  theirs  were  invited,  and  Maironi  was 
also  present." 


Eclipses  '29 

"Hm!  That  is  certainly  a  serious  matter/' 
Zdupa  exclaimed  at  once  regretfully  and  meekly. 
"But  are  you  sure  he  ate?" 

"Unfortunately  there  can  be  no  doubt  about 
that,"  Soldini  replied.  "And,  moreover,  gossip 
began  at  once,  for  the  kitchen-gardener  told  a 
lot  of  people." 

"  Think  of  the  scandal! "  the  priest  cried,  looking 
at  Zdupa. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  said  Zdupa.  "  I  was  not 
aware  of  this  circumstance,  but  I  must  admit  that 
a  change  has  for  some  time  been  coming  over  the 
man,  and — I  regret  to  say — not  a  change  for  the 
better.  His  conduct  also,  in  many  trivial  but  un- 
pleasant matters,  has  not  been  correct.  There- 
fore it  is  impossible  to  go  on  in  this  way — quite 
impossible — especially  when  we  consider  the  char- 
acters of  certain  of  our  colleagues." 

Then  the  Cavaliere,  after  declaring  that  per- 
sonally he  deeply  lamented  the  Dessalle  scandals, 
but  that  he  considered  it  most  dangerous,  most 
inopportune  to  use  them  against  the  mayor, 
frankly  admitted  that  Maironi's  occupancy  of  the 
office  was  a  source  of  anxiety  to  all  concerned, 
and  that  his  own  opinion  differed  from  that  of  the 
worthy  abb6  only  in  so  far  as  regarded  the  best 
manner  of  removing  this  source  of  anxiety.  He 
himself  was  convinced  that  the  mayor  had  wished 
to  bring  about  a  crisis  by  the  stand  he  had  taken  in 
several  much  talked  of  matters.  Maironi  wished 
to  break  with  the  town-council,  with  the  majority, 


130  The   Sinner 

and  with  the  party,  but  he  evidently  intended  to 
accomplish  this  in  the  way  most  convenient  to 
himself.  He  was  probably  also  anxious  de  mettre 
les  rieurs  de  son  cote.  Here  Zaupa  and  the  abbe 
looked  at  each  other,  their  eyes  saying  very 
plainly:  "Do  you  understand  that?  I  don't." 
Maironi  was,  moreover,  desirous  of  withdrawing 
from  office  in  a  manner  calculated  to  reflect  un- 
favourably upon  the  Catholics,  and  which  should 
justify,  or  at  least  excuse,  a  future  and  far  more 
serious  rupture,  when  he  should  see  fit  to  go  over 
to  other  views,  and  other  men.  Now  the  Cath- 
olics must,  in  their  own  interests,  carefully  avoid 
playing  his  game.  The  rupture  must  be  brought 
about  by  means  of  some  purely  official  question. 
"In  this  way,"  the  sagacious  orator  concluded, 
"you  will  avoid  offending  his  personal  sentiments, 
you  will  not  drive  him  to  the  opposite  extreme, 
which  would  not  only  mean  his  own  spiritual  ruin, 
but  would  be  a  painful  blow  to  the  party  as  well. 
Should  he  choose  to  turn  his  back  upon  the  Faith 
after  you — acting  with  prudence  and  all  due 
respect — shall  have  brought  about  his  withdrawal 
from  office,  he  will  be  injuring  himself  alone.  It 
will  be  through  no  fault  of  yours,  and  he  will  cut 
but  a  sorry  figure.  Indeed,  no  one  would  be 
willing  to  admit  that  a  question  concerning  gas, 
the  fixing  of  the  town  limits,  the  proper  salary 
for  licensed  midwives,  or  even  a  blow  aimed  at  his 
vanity,  could  justify  him  in  changing  both  his 
political  and  religious  views.  But  unless  he  is 


Eclipses  I3I 

irritated  I  do  not  believe  he  will  desert.  He  is 
under  the  spell  of  a  woman.  That  is  a  very 
human  weakness,  and  we  Catholics  are  perhaps 
wrong  in  not  making  sufficient  allowance  for  the 
sexual  frailty  of,  I  was  going  to  say,  even  the  best 
of  men,  and  the  most  fervent  Christians.  Let  the 
spell  do  its  work.  These  are  maladies  which,  like 
certain  tumours,  may  not  be  operated  upon  suc- 
cessfully until  they  have  reached  maturity.  But 
enough  of  this.  At  the  meeting  to-day,  you  must 
choose  the  ground  for  the  crisis.  It  has  occurred 
to  me  that  you  might  select  the  question  of  raising 
the  salaries  of  country  school-teachers.  You 
assessors  must  arrange  to  bring  the  question  be- 
fore the  committee  at  the  next  meeting,  and  it 
must  then  be  resolved  to  submit  the  teachers' 
demands  to  the  Council  with  a  vote  of  opposition. 
You  are  aware  that  the  mayor  has  already  com- 
promised himself  with  regard  to  this  matter, 
through  the  declarations  he  made  when  the 
demands  of  the  street-sweepers  were  under  dis- 
cussion. He  will  tender  his  resignation,  and  you 
will  immediately  do  the  same,  simply  pro  forma, 
of  course.  The  Council  will  be  convened  to  discuss 
the  resignations,  and  then  there  will  be  no  need  of 
mincing  matters,  and  the  mayor  will  not  be  re- 
elected.  Res  finita  est!" 

"Yes,  my  dear  sir,"  Zdupa  exclaimed.  "That 
will  be  a  most  prudent  course,  a  most  prudent 
course ! ' ' 

"  It  will  not  end  well,"  the  priest  began,  making 


132  The  Sinner 

light  of  Zciupa's  opinion.  His  own  opinions 
differed  from  the  Cavaliere's.  It  was  an  ugly 
matter,  a  very  ugly  matter,  this  intrigue  with  that 
woman.  When  there  is  cause  for  scandal  there  is 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  speculating  as  to  whether 
things  are  or  are  not  as  bad  as  they  are  represented. 
Let  us  admit — for  the  sake  of  argument — that  this 
misconduct  is  to  be  attributed  to  a  frailty  common 
to  all  flesh;  but  how  about  the  transgression  com- 
mitted in  public  on  Friday?  It  might  have  been 
overlooked  in  the  case  of  an  ordinary  Catholic, 
but  the  head  of  the  party !  Had  it  been  an  official 
banquet  which  the  mayor  was  obliged  to  attend, 
there  would  have  been  some  excuse  for  him;  he 
might  have  obtained  a  dispensation  from  the 
Bishop,  or  partaken  only  of  such  dishes  as  were 
not  composed  of  meat,  or,  as  a  last  resort,  he 
might  have  abstained  from  eating.  But  this  had 
been  a  purely  social  gathering,  and,  moreover,  it 
took  place  out  of  doors !  The  small  table  at  which 
the  mayor  sat  could  be  distinctly  seen  from  the 
vineyards  where  the  labourers  were  at  work.  It 
was  not  a  simple  violation  of  rules,  it  was  a  chal- 
lenge! It  would  be  quite  as  scandalous  not  to 
accept  the  challenge.  The  Signor  Sindaco  was  a 
diseased  member  of  the  Church,  and  diseased 
members  must  be  amputated  without  mercy.  It 
would  be  true  mercy  to  follow  the  example  of  St. 
Paul,  and  consign  the  man  and  his  scarf  of  office 
to  Satan,  that  his  soul  might  be  saved  at  the  day 
of  judgment!  However,  before  resorting  to  such 


Eclipses  133 

drastic  methods  the  sinner  should  be  summoned 
to  repent;  some  one  high  in  authority  should  ad- 
monish him,  and  then,  should  he  still  resist, 
they  must  go  to  him  and  openly  demand  his 
resignation. 

"Ah!"  Zaupa  exclaimed,  foreseeing  that  he 
himself  would  be  included  among  those  future 
ambassadors.  "  That  would  be  rather  harsh 
treatment!  Rather  harsh  treatment !  Don't  you 
think  so  yourself?" 

"Of  course,"  the  priest  replied.  "I  am  well 
aware  of  that." 

The  Cavaliere  here  remarked  that  it  was  almost 
four  o'clock,  and  it  would  be  wiser  for  them  to 
depart  at  once,  thus  avoiding  the  councillors,  who 
would  perhaps  urge  them  to  take  part  in  the 
meeting.  This  they  did  not  wish  to  do.  More 
over  Dr.  Zdupa  was  now  well  posted,  and  knew 
how  to  act.  For  his  part,  the  Cavaliere  had 
simply  expressed  his  opinion;  he  had  desired  to 
discuss  it,  but  did  not  wish  to  oblige  any  one  to 
accept  it. 

As  they  were  going  out,  the  abbe  whispered  in 
Z Pupa's  ear:  "Are  you  keeping,  this  meeting  a 
secret?" 

Zd,upa  started  violently,  and  answered  with  a 
dark  frown  and  uplifted  hands :  "  Most  certainly 
we  are ! "  as  if  it  had  been  at  least  a  plot  to  assas- 
sinate the  Pope. 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders  angrily,  and 
made  a  gesture  that  said  plainly  enough :  "  Speak 


134  The  Sinner 

out,  man!"  and  left  the  simple-minded  Za\ipa  in  a 
state  of  such  bewilderment  as  to  check  the  flow  of 
assurances  that  he  was  "Your  servant,  sir!"  and 
the  innumerable,  jerky  bows  with  which  he  was 
wont  to  accompany  a  visitor  to  the  door. 


ii 


Before  any  satisfactory  conclusion  had  been 
arrived  at  by  the  worthy  councillors  assembled  at 
Casa  Zdupa  for  the  purpose  of  discussing  the  best 
means  of  ridding  themselves  and  the  party  of  this 
most  objectionable  mayor,  a  letter  marked  "  Im- 
portant," and  coming  from  the  mayor  himself, 
was  handed  to  the  President.  The  letter  ran  as 
follows : 

DEAR  SIR, — 

I  am  informed  that  the  councillors  of  the  majority 
are  to  meet  to-day  at  your  house  for  the  discussion  of 
business  relating  to  the  commune.  As  I  have  not 
been  invited  to  attend  this  meeting,  I  conclude — 
without  surprise,  and  without  the  slightest  regret — 
that  the  majority  is  desirous  of  severing  its  con- 
nection with  the  head  of  the  Communal  administration. 
I  have  therefore  determined  to  tender  my  resignation 
to  the  Royal  Prefect  at  once,  and  I  herewith  com- 
municate the  fact  to  you,  as  first-assessor,  informing 
you,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  shall  not  visit  my  office 
again. 

With  cordial  greetings,  believe  me,  dear  Sir, 
Yours  faithfully, 

P.  MAIRONI. 


Eclipses  135 

"  Hurrah ! "  cried  one  of  the  councillors.  "  Total 
eclipse  of  the  mayor!"  And  all  the  faces  lighted 
up  save  that  of  the  sour  man.  "If  he  had  only 
sent  that  rigmarole  of  his  an  hour  earlier,"  said 
he  on  his  way  downstairs,  "  I  should  not  have  to 
eat  over-boiled  rice  for  supper!"  The  others 
discussed  the  mayor's  love  affairs  with  gaily  wag- 
ging tongues,  and  the  stairs  teemed  with  what  had 
been  with  difficulty  held  in  check  in  the  parlour.— 
What  does  the  Marchesa  say?  Poor  woman,  she 
looks  like  a  ghost! — And  the  Marchese?  He 
adapts  himself  to  circumstances. — But  has  it 
indeed  reached  such  a  point? — It  certainly  has!— 

The  same  things  had  been  said  on  the  stairs  in 
hushed  whispers  before  the  meeting,  by  those 
councillors  who  met  at  the  door  and  went  up 
together.  Thus  do  tiny  rivulets  trickle  with 
faint  whisperings  into  a  mountain  cavern,  filling 
it  with  their  silent  waters,  which  finally  overflow 
together  and  rush  valleywards,  repeating  the 
same  babblings,  but  this  time  in  a  louder  voice. 


in 


The  clouds  which  had  hung  above  the  respect- 
able tiles  of  Casa  Zd,upa  at  four  o'clock  sent  down 
torrents  of  rain  at  six.  Thunder,  lightning,  and 
a  high  wind  tore  across  the  sky  from  east  to  west, 
opening  a  clear  passage  for  the  moon.  A  total 
eclipse,  to  begin  at  half -past  eleven,  had  been 
announced,  and  Maironi  was  to  be  at  Villa  Diedo 


136  The  Sinner 

towards  eleven  o'clock,  and  accompany  the 
Dessalles  to  the  top  of  the  neighbouring  hill,  along 
which  a  magnificent  road  winds  like  a  ribbon, 
dominating  in  turn,  and  sometimes,  indeed,  at  the 
same  time,  the  boundless  east,  and  the  disorderly 
expanse  on  the  west,  encumbered  by  the  twisted 
roots  of  the  Alps,  up  to  the  very  base  of  a  slanting 
flight  of  more  lofty  summits. 

Shortly  after  half-past  ten  he  started  up  the 
steep  and  lonely  lane  that  leads  from  the  stables 
to  the  villa.  The  moon  was  skimming  across  the 
tops  of  the  trees  which  overhang  the  road  from  the 
bank  above.  He  found  the  garden-gate  standing 
half-open,  and  entered  the  thick  grove  of  horn- 
beams on  the  left,  at  the  other  end  of  which  the 
gravel  of  an  open  space  shone  in  the  moonlight. 
From  one  side  of  the  grove  a  dark  figure  sprang 
suddenly  forward  into  the  white  light,  and  Piero 
felt  himself  pressed  in  Jeanne's  arms,  felt  her 
eager  forehead  upon  his  breast.  Thus  they  re- 
mained locked  in  a  long  and  silent  embrace,  he 
drinking  in  the  perfume  of  her  soft,  warm  hair 
upon  which  his  lips  rested,  she  holding  him  close, 
and  nestling  her  head  ever  deeper,  as  if  seeking  to 
force  open  his  breast,  to  hide  her  whole  being  in 
his  heart.  At  last  Jeanne  told  him  softly  and 
without  changing  her  position,  that  her  brother 
was  absent  from  the  city ;  she  said  she  had  at  first 
been  overjoyed  at  this  unexpected  and  fortunate 
circumstance,  and  then  she  had  trembled  and  been 
so  frightened;  her  first  fear  had  been  that  she 


Eclipses  137 

should  not  be  able  to  remain  alone  with  him,  then, 
when  she  had  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  rid  of 
some  troublesome  visitors,  she  had  feared  he  would 
not  come.  And  she  laughed  a  little  joyous  laugh, 
resting  there  on  his  breast.  Piero  made  no 
answer,  but  taking  her  head  in  both  hands,  he 
forced  her  to  raise  it,  and  still  without  speaking, 
kissed  her  eagerly  on  eyes,  cheeks  and  mouth, 
while  Jeanne  submitted  and  indeed  returned  his 
kisses,  but  without  warmth.  At  last  she  gently 
removed  his  hands  from  her  neck,  and,  in  her  turn, 
drawing  his  head  down  to  her,  kissed  him  upon 
the  forehead,  as  if  to  calm  his  excitement,  and 
whispered:  "Now  say  something  to  me!"  But 
the  young  man,  who  was  still  eager,  and  whose 
longing  had  become  still  more  intense,  answered 
only,  between  two  kisses:  "I  am  thirsty!  I  am 
thirsty!"  Then  she  drew  away.  "  Enough!"  said 
she  resolutely,  and  ordered  him  to  leave  the 
garden,  and  to  wait  outside  for  a  few  minutes 
before  ringing  the  bell,  on  account  of  the  servants. 
She  would  wait  for  him  on  the  terrace.  Maironi 
obeyed  reluctantly. 

Five  minutes  later  a  footman  followed  by  Piero 
passed  from  beneath  the  dark  hornbeams  into  the 
moonlight  beyond,  and  raising  his  face — which 
was  like  the  face  of  an  ancient  Roman — towards 
the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  announced: 

"Signor  Maironi." 

Jeanne  was  standing  behind  the  balsutrade,  a 
small,  white  cape  thrown  over  her  shoulders. 


138  The  Sinner 

"This  is  good  of  you!"  she  said  in  answer  to  his 
respectful  salutation.  Hat  in  hand,  Piero  went  up 
to  the  terrace  with  a  smile  upon  his  face  that  was 
too  much  like  the  smile  of  the  woman  who  was 
advancing  to  meet  him.  It  was  indeed  magni- 
ficent in  the  moonlight,  this  white  marble  terrace, 
jutting  out  from  the  first  floor  of  the  villa,  with 
its  flight  of  broad  steps  leading  down  into  the 
garden,  its  balustrade  which  the  creeping  roses 
had  taken  by  storm  and  hidden  beneath  a  tangled 
glory  of  dense  foliage  and  great  flesh-coloured 
eyes,  long  branches  swaying  in  the  vagrant  breezes 
of  the  night.  It  was  magnificent  with  its  sur- 
rounding circle  of  beauty,  sweeping  from  the  dark 
and  humble  plains  on  the  North  to  the  radiant 
brightness  in  the  sky  above  the  lighted  city; 
stretching  away  to  the  ridge  of  uplands,  close 
pressed  between  two  long  groves  of  hornbeams, 
and  to  the  ploughed  fields  sleeping  beneath  the 
moon  in  the  valley  on  the  South. 

"Why  not  stay  here?"  Piero  said  in  an  under- 
tone, as  if  the  innocent  words  might  betray  to 
some  inquisitive  ear  his  longing  for  an  hour  of 
delight  in  that  solitary  and  enchanted  spot  among 
the  restless  roses,  which  rustled  a  voluptuous 
invitation. 

"  We  will  remain  here  for  the  present,"  Jeanne  re- 
plied, and  having  ordered  the  footman  to  ring 
them  some  coffee — her  favourite  beverage  as  well 
as  Piero' s — she  went  towards  some  wicker  chairs, 
standing  in  one  corner  of  the  terrace. 


Eclipses  139 

"And  then  we  will  go,"  she  said  softly,  throw- 
ing herself  back  with  a  sigh  in  a  low,  easy- chair 
against  which  the  roses  brushed.  In  Piero's  eyes 
she  saw  a  light  that  made  her  start  up  suddenly 
again.  "How  wicked  you  are!"  said  she.  "I 
never  think  of  that!" 

He  protested  with  heat  that  it  was  not  wicked- 
ness to  love  her  with  his  whole  soul,  with  all  the 
blood  in  his  veins,  to 

Jeanne  checked  him  with  a  gesture,  and  pointed 
to  a  lighted,  open  window,  in  the  villa. 

"The  maids,"  said  she. 

Piero  bit  his  lips,  and  let  his  gaze  rest  long  upon 
her,  speaking  with  his  ardent,  unswerving  eyes. 
Then  he  told  her  that  he  was  no  longer  mayor, 
that  he  had  broken  for  ever  with  those  wretched 
people ;  that  he  felt  he  was  being  born  into  a  new 
life;  that  he  was  drunk  with  the  sense  of  his 
freedom.  Hardly  had  he  uttered  the  word  when 
he  remembered  the  still  unsevered  chain  that 
bound  him.  Jeanne  seemed  to  have  had  the 
same  thought  and  could  find  nothing  to  say. 
After  a  moment  of  painful  silence  she  mentioned 
the  tiresome  visitors  who  had  come  out  from  the 
town  using  the  eclipse  as  a  pretext  for  an  escapade 
that  should  be  both  "smart"  and  amusing.  To 
her  great  grief,  poor  Jeanne  had  been  obliged  to 
dismiss  them.  She  had  pleaded  an  appointment 
with  friends  on  the  hill-road.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  her  brother  had  left  her  hoping  to  return 
from  Venice  with  an  artist  friend,  in  time  to  watch 


140  The  Sinner 

the  eclipse  with  her,  and  she  had  promised  to  drive 
up  the  hill  and  wait  for  him  at  the  point  where 
both  slopes  are  visible  from  the  road.  The  tire- 
some people  had  seemed  disposed  to  await  her 
departure.  "  I  am  afraid  I  was  not  very  nice  to 
them,"  said  she.  "  However,"  she  added,  alluding 
to  two  ladies  of  the  city  who  worshipped  her  in 
spite  of  the  lukewarmness  of  her  affection  for 
them,  "neither  of  my  jealous  admirers  was 
present,  and  the  mammas  and  young  ladies  of  the 
party  had  certainly  come  far  more  on  my  brother's 
account  than  on  mine.  Perhaps  some  of  them 
intended  going  into  total  eclipse  in  pleasant  com- 
pany in  the  garden  or  under  the  hornbeams." 

At  that  moment  the  "ancient  Roman"  entered 
with  the  coffee. 

"  I  was  already  aware  of  what  you  have  told 
me,"  said  Jeanne.  "I  was  informed  of  it  by  the 
young  man  you  got  the  place  for  at  the  Library. 
He  was  half  dismayed  and  half  angry.  I  could 
see  that  my  visitors  knew  it  also.  Je  les  ai  en- 
tendus  dire  en  partant  que  j'avais  les  nerfs,  et  que 
c'etait  Veffei  de  la  crise." 

"  We  had  better  walk,  don't  you  think  so?"  she 
said  presently.  "I  will  send  the  carriage  down 
to  the  station  and  order  it  to  come  for  us  in  any 
case,  whether  they  arrive  or  not." 

She  gave  her  instructions  to  the  footman  and 
rose,  as  the  great,  solemn  voice  of  midnight 
sounded  high  up  on  the  hill-side,  where  the 
Sanctuary  showed  white  against  the  clear  sky. 


Eclipses  141 

As  they  were  going  to  walk  it  was  time  to  put  on 
her  hat  and  gloves. 

Maironi  followed  her  into  the  rectangular  hall, 
whose  two  longest  walls  are  covered  by  paintings 
by  Tiepolo,  and  show,  on  one  side,  Iphigenia 
between  her  executioners  and  the  sorrowful 
princes,  and  on  the  other,  the  Greek  crews  turning 
towards  the  ships  in  which  they  are  about  to 
embark.  The  room  was  but  dimly  lighted,  and 
held  an  odour  of  heliotrope  and  of  Cuban 
cigarettes. 

"Let  us  remain  here!  Let  us  remain  here!" 
said  the  young  man,  in  such  a  strange  voice  and 
with  an  accent  of  such  ardent  supplication  that 
Jeanne,  who  had  started  to  go  to  her  room, 
hastened  her  steps.  He  sprang  after  her,  follow- 
ing her  into  the  dark  corridor  leading  to  the  stair- 
way, and  threw  his  arms  about  her  waist.  But 
she  tore  herself  away  impetuously  and  rushed 
towards  the  brightly-lighted  stairway.  She  soon 
came  down  again  accompanied  by  her  maid,  and 
looking  grieved. 

As  soon  as  the  footman  had  closed  the  garden- 
gate  behind  them  Piero  apologised.  Jeanne  did 
not  answer.  He  stopped  abruptly,  feeling  the 
blood  freeze  in  his  veins.  Then  Jeanne  took  his 
arm,  and  told  him  she  was  not  angry  only  grieved, 
deeply  grieved  that  she  should  thus  unduly  ex- 
cite his  passions ;  that  her  love,  which  was  indeed 
impulsive  and  unbounded,  but  not  sensual,  should 
be  thus  misunderstood.  She  was  pained  and 


The  Sinner 


astonished  that  her  influence  should  be  such  over 
him,  her  first  real  love,  while  others  who  had 
loved  her,  and  perhaps  still  cherished  their  un- 
requited affection  for  her,  had  felt  themselves 
purified  by  her,  as  it  were,  and  had  asked  for  her 
love  in  the  name  of  their  moral  salvation.  She 
feared,  therefore,  that  he  loved  her  only  as  a 
sweet  deliverance  from  his  past,  which  deliverance 
did  not  seem  to  him  complete  without  an  irremedi- 
able act  of  mortal  offence  against  that  past,  an 
act  which  should  form  a  sort  of  material  bond 
between  himself  and  her  who  had  set  him  free. 
He  tried  to  interrupt,  but  Jeanne  would  not  listen 
to  him.  If,  in  the  violence  of  her  passion,  Jeanne 
sometimes  humbled  herself  before  him  like  a  slave, 
she  now  judged  him  with  a  lofty  independence, 
with  a  keenness  and  frankness  that  terrified  him. 

"Do  you  no  longer  love  me?"  said  he. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  clinging  still  tighter  to  his 
arm  as  she  pressed  close  to  his  side.  An  exhil- 
arating sweetness  invaded  his  senses. 

"  I  also  have  felt  your  purifying  influence,"  said 
he,  "for  now  indulgence  without  love  would  be 
loathsome  to  me.  At  this  present  moment  I  feel 
that  I  am  as  pure  as  you  yourself  can  wish  me  to 
be.  Try  to  imagine  that  I  am  kissing  you  on  the 
brow." 

Jeanne  smiled.  "Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  and 
continued  : 

"You  must  indeed  believe  me;  I  am  really 
peculiar  in  this  way.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be 


Eclipses  143 

natural  coldness,  or  pride,  or  the  horrible  im- 
pression left  upon  me  by  my  brutal  husband,  or — 
what  shall  I  call  it? — an  aesthetic  sense;  it  may 
perhaps  be  the  result  of  all  these  causes  combined. 
I  only  know  that  the  idea  of  the  extreme  of 
sensuality  fills  me  with  immense  repugnance. 
Perhaps  I  might  bring  myself  to  make  a  sacrifice 
in  order  to  satisfy  the  man  I  loved,  but  I  am  sure 
I  should  love  him  far  less  afterwards.  I  feel  that 
I  love  even  you  much  less  at  certain  times  you 
know  of — like  a  moment  ago,  for  example.  Per- 
haps I  am  strange,  even  unique,  but  this  is  the 
case.  Besides,  there  is  my  brother.  I  feel  like 
a  mother  towards  my  brother,  and  he  has  the 
greatest  confidence  in  my  high-mindedness ;  he 
adores  me  as  being  superior  to  all  human  frailties. 
It  would  be  terrible  for  him  to  discover  that  I  had 
lowered  myself  like  any  ordinary  woman.  More- 
over, I  believe  he  also  is  of  a  cold  temperament; 
certainly,  he  is  morbidly  sensitive,  for  a  man,  not 
only  to  all  unrefinement  of  action,  but  to  the 
slightest  word  touching  certain  delicate  questions. 
He  has  no  more  religion  than  I  have,  but,  never- 
theless, I  am  convinced  he  does  not  live  as  other 
men  do.  Perhaps  he  may  be  influenced  some- 
what by  the  religion  of  his  health- 
Jeanne  glanced  at  the  moon.  "  I  don't  know 
how  I  have  brought  myself  to  talk  to  you  of 
these  things  before  the  total  eclipse,"  she  said. 

"To  you?"  said  he  questioningly,  for  she  had 
used  the  formal  second  person  plural. 


H4  The  Sinner 

"  Yes,  to  you.  Don't  you  see  there  some  people 
near  us?" 

At  that  moment  they  were  leaving  the  narrow 
lane  that  runs  between  two  walls,  to  follow  the 
open  ridge  that  leads  to  the  greater  heights,  where, 
only  a  few  steps  from  them,  and  near  the  parapet 
that  crowns  the  brow  of  the  broad  square  over- 
looking the  city,  a  party  of  young  men  were  walk- 
ing, laughing  gaily  as  they  talked. 

"  Now  that  he  has  thrown  those  hypocrites  over- 
board," said  one,  raising  his  voice  above  the  others' 
chatter,  "  and  all  for  the  pleasure —  "  (here  there 
followed  an  indelicate  allusion),  "I  am  beginning 
to  respect  him,  and  shall  certainly  give  him  my 
vote." 

Near  that  spot  the  road  from  Villa  Diedo  and  the 
other  villas  on  the  hill-side  joins  the  road  from  the 
city  to  the  Sanctuary.  Maironi,  who  was  deathly 
pale,  turned  with  his  companion  towards  the 
shadow  of  the  great  horse-chestnuts  that  stand 
drawn  up  in  line  like  a  guard  of  honour,  on  the  left 
of  the  broad  way.  Before  and  behind  them  others 
were  coming  up  the  hill  to  witness  the  eclipse. 
They  heard  a  gentleman  who  was  walking  in  front 
of  them  with  two  ladies,  say  to  his  companions: 
"It  would  be  awful  if  she  should  get  well  now!" 
Perhaps  he  had  not  meant  the  person  of  whom 
both  Maironi  and  Jeanne  were  thinking,  but  his 
dark  words  struck  them  like  an  icy  wind.  It  was, 
above  all,  bitter  to  each  to  think  that  the  other  had 
heard,  and  that  it  was  not  possible  for  either  to 


Eclipses  145 

speak,  although  their  very  embarrassment  was 
more  or  less  ridiculous.  Instinctively  and  in  si- 
lence they  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
Jeanne  broke  the  silence  by  saying  that  her  brother 
had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  give  a  garden-party 
at  Villa  Diedo  in  June,  or  a  fancy-dress  ball  during 
the  coming  winter,  and  as  it  would  be  necessary  to 
cover  in  the  terrace  with  iron  and  glass,  they  must 
begin  to  make  arrangements  very  soon.  She  said 
she  herself  was  opposed  to  the  plan,  but  that  Car- 
lino's  friends,  both  male  and  female,  even  his 
friends  in  Florence,  were  encouraging  him  in  his 
whim.  They  were  greatly  taken  by  the  idea  of 
Tiepolo  and  the  eighteenth  century  and  Tiepo- 
lesque  costumes.  Considering  what  a  gossip- 
loving  place  this  was,  it  was  to  be  hoped  the  party 
would  fall  through  as  the  picnic  had  done.  Piero 
did  not  seem  interested  in  what  she  was  saying. 
Presently  Jeanne  asked,  speaking  softly  because  a 
troop  of  ladies  and  young  men  were  climbing  the 
hill  in  front  of  them,  if  it  were  not  probable  the 
town-council  would  re-elect  him.  No,  it  was  not 
at  all  probable.  That  they  might  not  think  he  had 
been  moved  to  take  this  step  by  a  desire  to  retal- 
iate or  by  anger,  Piero  was  going  to  tender  his 
resignation  as  town-councillor  as  soon  as  possible. 

"How  many  things  you  think  about!"  said 
Jeanne.  "  I  think  of  one  thing  only." 

"  I  can  think  of  what  you  mean  as  intensely  as 
you  can,  and  of  other  things  at  the  same  time," 
Piero  replied. 


146  The  Sinner 

"And  what  will  you  do  now?"  said  Jeanne, 
smiling.  "Will  you  join  the  Liberals?" 

Maironi  did  not  answer.  When  they  had  gone 
forward  a  few  paces  they  found  themselves  in  the 
shadow  of  the  church.  Then  he  would  have  taken 
Jeanne's  arm,  but  she  demurred. 

"  I  do  not  care  in  the  least  for  myself  whether 
they  see  us  or  not,"  said  she,  "but  I  am  afraid  of 
injuring  you." 

The  young  man  drew  her  violently  towards  him, 
and  she  now  submitted  at  once. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  he.  "  I  scorn  all  they 
have  said,  all  they  are  saying  now  and  may  say 
in  the  future!  And  pray  don't  talk  to  me  about 
the  local  political  parties.  And  don't  talk  of  this 
town  either,  which  is  becoming  more  hateful  to  me 
every  minute!  After  all,  I  was  not  born  here, 
and  different  blood  flows  in  my  veins.  Now  that 
I  have  broken  with  so  many  ties,  the  world  is 
spreading  out  and  lighting  up  before  me  in  a 
wonderful  way.  I  tell  you  I  feel  like  a  god  in  a 
mud-puddle!  Join  the  Liberals?  Gracious  heav- 
ens! what  party  could  I  possibly  join  here  that  is 
not  characterised  by  meanness  and  pettiness? 
Look  at  the  clericals !  If  there  is  one  clerical  with 
whom  it  is  possible  to  converse  it  is  Soldini,  and 
he  does  not  belong  here,  he  comes  from  Milan. 
The  Liberals?  I  know  perfectly  well  they  will 
all  flock  about  me  now,  and  the  very  thought  of 
this  exasperates  me  already.  I  know  them,  and 
I  weigh  them!  Besides,  as  yet  I  have  no  idea 


Eclipses  147 

what  I  shall  do.  Meanwhile  I  assure  you  I  am 
taking  my  part  in  life  actively  enough!  I  have 
a  feeling  that  I  am  being  carried  forward  by  fate, 
but  I  do  not  believe  that  I  should  ever  become 
what  is  called  a  Liberal,  even  in  other  surround- 
ings. Liberalism  is  antiquated.  Liberty  was 
once  an  ideal,  but  now  it  can  only  serve  as  a 
weapon.  It  is  more  probable  you  may  see  me  a 
Socialist!" 

"No,  no!"  Jeanne  exclaimed,  but  without  great 
warmth. 

"Ah,  not  a  Socialist  with  the  Socialists  we 
have  here,  you  know!  Perhaps  not  even  with 
of  those  Milan  and  Turin,  although  they  are  bet- 
ter. Certainly  never  with  either  the  ignorant,  the 
dishonest,  or  the  greedy." 

"Or  with  the  others  either!" 

"Why  not?" 

Piero  was  aware  that  Carlino  Dessalle  was  a 
bitter  adversary  of  Socialism,  but  he  had  never 
noticed  that  Jeanne  shared  her  brother's  senti- 
ments. She  did  not,  indeed,  share  his  hatred  of 
the  doctrine,  but  she  was  sceptical,  profoundly 
sceptical. 

"Because  it  is  a  useless  movement,"  said  she. 
"  The  world  wags  as  it  is  destined  to  wag.  These 
theories  are  simply  dreams.  Besides,  I  am  sure 
you  would  never  come  to  the  fore  in  such  a 
party." 

He  protested  so  hotly  that  Jeanne  was  fright- 
ened. "  No,  no!  Pray  forgive  me!  Be  quiet,  do!" 


The  Sinner 


She  entreated  him  to  stop  protesting,  not  to  spoil 
this  hour  of  happiness,  to  speak  of  love,  of  love 
only;  and  her  voice  caressed  him  like  the  touch 
of  gentle  hands.  He  yielded,  but  his  passion 
mastered  him  once  more  as  it  had  done  at  the 
villa.  He  wished  to  leave  the  main  road  and 
follow  a  shadowy  path  that  leads  out  of  it  a  few 
steps  beyond  the  church.  Jeanne  would  not 
consent  to  this,  and  Piero  insisted  almost  harshly. 
"  Now  I  shall  simply  take  you  in  my  arms  and 
carry  you  whither  I  will!  "  But  she  persevered  in 
her  resistance,  and  drew  him  forward. 

"Would  you  have  screamed?"  said  he. 

"No,  I  should  have  bitten  you!" 

He  was  silent.  When  they  had  proceeded  a 
few  paces,  Jeanne,  continuing  aloud  a  conversation 
that  had  begun  in  silence,  asked  him  if  he  had 
indeed  broken  completely  with  his  faith  also. 

"I  believe  so,"  said  he. 

Jeanne  smiled.  "What  do  you  mean  by  'I 
believe  so'?" 

He  endeavoured  to  explain  the  strange  ex- 
pression. "  You  see,  my  soul  is  still  so  enveloped 
in  the  clouds  of  dust  arising  from  the  collapse  of 
so  much  within  me,  that  I  cannot  yet  tell  what 
has  fallen  and  what  is  still  standing.  I  think,  I 
am  almost  sure,  that  I  still  believe  in  God,  but 
not  in  the  God  I  was  taught  to  worship.  I  buried 
that  God  at  Praglia.  He  was  already  lying  half 
dead  within  me,  but  I  was  still  held  in  the  tram- 
mels of  my  old,  mental  habits.  Who  knows  !  If 


Eclipses  149 

all  Catholics  were  like  one  old  priest  I  know  per- 
haps I  should  not  have  lost  my  faith!  And  yet 
even  he  ...  To  tell  me  I  must  not  judge  the 
Catholic  Church  by  a  few  hundred  individuals, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  answer  that  the 
whole  Catholic  Church  is  becoming  inanimate, 
that  all  is  antiquated  in  her,  from  the  words  of  the 
Vatican  to  those  of  the  humblest  country  chaplain ! 
Once  I  thought  that  perhaps  another  St.  Francis, 
another  St.  Augustine  would  come.  Now  I  know 
neither  will  come." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  lost  your  faith,"  said 
Jeanne. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  know  how  sad  it  is  not  to  have  any- 
thing firm,  anything  positive  within  one!" 

"Have  you  nothing  firm  within  you?" 

"Nothing,  save  love!" 

"  Do  you  not  even  believe  there  may  be  another 
way?" 

"  No,"  Jeanne  answered  with  a  sigh. 

Both  were  silent  for  a  time.  Suddenly  Jeanne 
exclaimed.  "  And  the  moon  ?"  They  raised  their 
eyes,  almost  expecting  the  eclipse  would  be  over. 
The  shadow  covered  about  one  third  of  the  orb. 
They  looked  to  see  what  time  it  was.  The  carriage 
would  be  coming  very  soon  now. 

"I  hope  they  will  not  have  arrived,"  said 
Jeanne.  She  added  that  the  Venetian  painter 
had  once  been  in  love  with  her,  and  she  confessed 
that  although  she  had  never  returned  his  affection, 


150  The   Sinner 

she  had,  at  one  time,  thought  him  very  amusing, 
and  had  enjoyed  the  mad  things  he  persisted  in 
saying  to  her,  in  spite  of  her  rebuffs.  Now  he  no 
longer  said  mad  things  to  her,  and  she  found  him 
tiresome.  Maironi  pretended  to  be  convinced  that 
she  regretted  the  man's  foolish  talk,  and  feigned 
jealousy.  They  laughed  together,  laughed  joy- 
ously about  the  lovers  Jeanne  had  had;  about 
Captain  Reggini,  who  was  tiresome  in  spite  of 
his  wit,  on  account  of  the  attitude  of  jealousy  he 
dared  to  assume;  they  laughed  about  an  elderly 
married  man  of  the  town,  who  pined  for  the 
laurels  of  a  libertine,  and  was  anything  but  an 
expert  in  that  calling.  He  had  dared  to  make 
some  bold  overtures,  and  having  received  a  sharp 
lesson,  had  taken  to  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs." 

A  carriage  was  coming  up  behind  them.  White 
horses.  Then  it  could  not  be  the  Dessalles' 
carriage.  Jeanne  and  Maironi  drew  aside  into  the 
shadow  of  a  wall.  From  that  point  the  road 
sloped  steeply  downwards,  and  the  coachman  put 
the  horses  to  a  walk.  It  was  a  stage,  laden  with 
ladies  and  officers,  and  a  noisy  astronomical  dis- 
cussion was  going  on  concerning  the  Colonel's 
nose,  Captain  Reggini  swearing  that  he  could 
see  the  shadow  of  that  nose  upon  the  mountains 
of  the  moon,  just  above  the  volcano  of  Desolation, 
while  some  one  else  swore  that  what  he  saw  was 
the  shadow  of  the  frontal  appendix  of—  — ! 
Horrified  protests,  exclamations,  guffaws,  laughter, 
satire,  horses  and  stage  all  passed  on  at  last. 


Eclipses  151 

Jeanne  believed  she  had  heard  her  husband's 
name. 

"I  do  so  wish  I  could  go  away  from  here!"  said 
she. 

"Where  would  you  go?" 

"Where  no  one  knows  us." 

He  understood,  pressed  her  arm  tighter,  and 
asked : 

"How  about  your  brother?" 

Jeanne  sighed.  "It  would  be  quite  sufficient  to 
tell  him  that  after  heavy  rains  the  water  stagnates 
in  the  little  valley  '  del  Silenzio, '  and  infects  the 
air  somewhat.  But  I  will  never  do  that.  He  is 
too  fond  of  Villa  Diedo,  and  has  already  spent 
such  a  mountain  of  money  there." 

At  that  moment  the  Dessalles'  horses  came  up 
at  a  slow  trot.  The  landau  was  empty;  the 
"  ancient  Roman  "  got  off  the  box  and  told  Jeanne 
that  no  one  had  arrived.  She  and  Maironi  entered 
the  carriage.  Without  stopping  to  consider, 
Jeanne,  who  did  not  wish  to  meet  the  stage,  pro- 
posed that  they  return  to  Villa  Diedo  and  await 
the  completion  of  the  eclipse  on  the  terrace. 
Maironi  murmured  a  "thank  you!"  so  full  of 
fervour  that  she  at  once  regretted  her  proposal, 
but  she  did  not  venture  to  alter  it. 

It  was  only  then  as  they  were  ascending  the 
steep  hill  behind  the  large-eared  majesty  of  the 
coachman  and  footman  that  Jeanne  and  Maironi 
contemplated  the  scene  of  their  idyll,  the  tiny 
white  villas,  growing  ever  paler  against  the  shad- 


152  The   Sinner 

owy  hills,  the  new  trembling  of  small  stars,  rising 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  sky.  Waves  of  warm  air 
and  the  odour  of  the  acacia  in  full  bloom  passed 
over  them,  alternating  with  waves  of  cool  air  and 
the  odour  of  damp  woods. 

"  Your  country  is  indeed  beautiful !  said  Jeanne." 

"It  is  not  my  country." 

"How  is  that?" 

Maironi  was  amused  by  Jeanne's  tone.  She 
seemed  offended  and  incredulous. 

"Masterful,  as  usual!"  said  he.  "You  are 
never  willing  to  admit  a  mistake!"  She  also 
smiled,  and  breathed  "Naughty  boy!"  upon  his 
face.  Then,  speaking  aloud,  she  asked  him  where 
his  country  was,  and  added  softly:  "I  know,  but 
I  had  forgotten."  Piero  told  her  of  the  house  in 
which  he  was  born,  of  the  lonely  lake,  the  great 
stern  mountains  of  Valsolda.  Just  then  the 
landau  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  horses 
broke  into  a  trot. 

"  If  we  were  only  there  in  a  boat,  we  two  alone ! " 
said  Piero.  "  Shall  we  ever  be  there,  floating  alone 
in  a  little  boat,  in  the  shadow  of  a  bay,  upon  the 
swelling  waters?" 

He  passed  his  arm  behind  Jeanne's  shoulders, 
felt  her  lovely  person  bend  forward  a  little  way 
and  then  sink  back  against  his  arm,  pressing  it 
deliciously,  now  more,  now  less,  in  answer  to  his 
every  movement.  They  spoke  no  more  save  in 
this  way.  The  horses  trotted  briskly;  sweet 
odours  were  fanned  across  the  road  from  the 


Eclipses  153 

masses  of  blossoms  on  either  side.  As  the  moonlight 
diminished  a  voluptuous  languor  encompassed  all 
things,  and  all  things  grew  paler  and  more  pale  in 
anticipation  of  the  hidden  conjunction  of  two  orbs 
that  was  to  take  place  in  the  surrounding  gloom. 

Only  a  thin,  silver  rim  of  the  moon's  reddish 
globe  was  still  shining  when  they  once  more 
ascended  the  dark  terrace.  In  the  restless  air, 
the  swaying  of  the  roses,  indistinctly  heard, 
sounded  like  voices  of  desire  and  pain.  The 
sprays  seen  but  indistinctly,  waving  from  side  to 
side,  seemed  like  the  arms  of  staggering  blind  men. 
As  he  leaned  forward  to  turn  the  reclining-chair 
towards  the  west,  where  the  moon  was  setting, 
Piero  brushed  Jeanne's  shoulder  with  his  lips 
murmuring,  "Dear  gloom!"  "But  I  love  the 
light,"  Jeanne  replied.  At  the  same  moment 
there  flashed  across  his  mind  in  a  cold  and  fleeting 
light,  the  words:  dilexerunt  tenebras.  Enough, 
enough!  He  wished  he  had  not  even  thought  of 
them.  He  sat  down  beside  Jeanne  and  said  aloud, 
in  case  any  one  should  be  listening;  "Now, 
Signora,  we  can  play  we  are  astronomers,"  and 
he  took  her  hand.  "  You  were  unjust,"  he 
murmured,  "  bitterly  unjust,  when  you  said  there 
is  cold  purpose  beneath  my  ardour.  Never  say 
so  again!"  Jeanne  carried  his  hand  to  her  lips. 

Silence,  the  breath  of  roses,  the  gentle  swaying 
of  branches  and  human  sighs,  full  of  the  Ineffable. 

"Is  it  not  too  cold  and  damp  for  you  here?" 
said  Piero,  at  last.  "  Would  it  not  be  better ?" 


154  The   Sinner 

Jeanne  smiled.  "  I  think  it  would  be  better  for 
you  to  leave  me  now,  my  friend." 

"Good-bye,  then." 

"No,  no!" 

She  herself  has  told  him  to  go,  and  now  she 
would  not  allow  it.  They  both  laughed  very 
softly.  "Yes,  yes,"  said  she  growing  serious, 
"you  must  really  go."  "Without  a  kiss?  With- 
out a  single  kiss?"  Piero  whispered,  and  she  rose 
and  went  into  the  hall,  he  following  her. 
"  Now  I  will  summon  the  footman  to  accompany 
you  to  the  gate,"  said  she,  and  placing  her 
finger  on  the  button  of  the  electric  bell,  she 
turned  towards  the  young  man,  and  offered  him 
her  lips. 

He  went  down  the  hill  as  one  in  a  dream, 
conscious  of  nothing  save  of  that  act,  of  those  lips, 
with  no  thought  save  that  he  could  think  of 
nothing,  wish  for  nothing,  that  in  this  happy  state 
he  was  descending  into  the  depths  of  the  River 
of  Life,  at  once  so  impetuous  and  so  gentle.  As 
he  entered  Casa  Scremin,  he  asked  himself  if  it 
would  be  possible  for  him  to  go  on  living  with 
these  people.  While  he  was  taking  off  his  coat 
he  thought  with  disgust  of  the  fair-haired  lady's 
maid.  How  delightful  no  longer  to  feel  the  brute 
without  love  within  him,  to  be  thus  transfigured 
in  the  life  of  the  body !  He  sat  down  on  the  bed, 
and  once  more  recalled  the  most  delicious  mo- 
ments of  that  night,  from  the  silent  embrace 


Eclipses  155 

beneath  the  hornbeams  to  the  kiss  in  the  hall. 
He  also  pondered  Jeanne's  strangest  words, 
delighting  in  and  proud  of  the  love  of  a  creature 
so  beautiful,  so  strange  and  deep,  and  asking  him- 
self at  the  same  time,  now  that  he  could  reflect 
calmly,  if  there  be  not  in  her,  together  with  so 
much  love,  a  secret  nucleus  of  pride,  of  ideas 
stronger  than  love  itself,  which  was  invincible. 
And  was  not  her  attachment  to  her  brother  ex- 
cessive, almost  an  offence?  But,  after  all,  what 
love,  what  immense,  impetuous,  tender  love,  even 
within  those  limits!  What  unique  love,  what 
spiritual  intensity  of  love  mingled  with  the  most 
exquisite  and  delicate  desire  of  the  senses!  He 
returned  eagerly  to  the  memory  of  the  silent 
embrace,  the  sweet  mouth.  Ah! 

He  roused  himself  and  prepared  to  go  to  bed. 
There  was  something  new  lying  on  the  pedestal, 
just  as  on  the  night  of  the  temptation.  Not 
flowers  this  time,  but  a  sealed  letter  with  the 
simple  address:  Piero,  in  the  Marchesa's  hand. 
He  tore  it  open  without  noticing  a  little  envelope 
that  fell  from  it,  and  read  as  follows : 

"Praised  be  the  Lord  who  sends  us  consolation 
at  lasts  This  evening,  after  ten  o'clock,  the  assistant 
physician  from  the  Asylum  came  here,  and  brought 
the  enclosed  card  with  Elisa's  writing  upon  it." 

Piero  paused  and  shuddered;  then  he  sought 
for  the  little  envelope  and  picked  it  up.  It  con- 


156  The  Sinner 

tained  a  small  square  of  paper  across  which  the 
mad  woman's  hand  had  traced  in  large,  uneven 
letters,  the  words: 

I  SUFFER. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  the  palace  the  old  clock 
struck  three.  Then  once  more  silence  reigned,  that 
awful  silence  of  conscious  things.  Piero,  seated 
on  the  bed  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  gazed 
at  it,  half  dazed;  looked  at  the  little  square 
of  paper,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  letter  once 
more.  He  read  the  doctor's  words  of  encourage- 
ment over  and  over  again,  read  of  a  Mass  that  was 
to  be  celebrated  the  next  morning  at  the  Cathe- 
dral. Finally  he  let  his  dull  eyes  rest  upon  the 
words  scrawled  across  the  card  in  large  letters. 
Conflicting  sentiments  of  remorse,  of  terror,  of 
hope  that  was  sinful,  and  which  he  recognised  as 
such;  conflicting  visions  of  possible  events,  which 
must  bring  about  some  strange  drama,  were 
warring  within  him,  darkening  his  soul.  Little 
by  little,  as  he  studied  the  terrible  words  still  so 
full  of  the  shadows  of  insanity,  he  began  to  find 
dreary  relief  in  the  thought  that  those  shadows 
would  probably  conquer  at  last,  and  he  assured 
himself  over  and  over  again  that  this  judgment 
was  the  result  of  dispassionate  reasoning,  and  not 
the  voice  of  cruel  hope.  The  light  of  the  candle 
died  out  at  early  dawn;  from  the  depths  of  the 
palace  the  old  clock  struck  four,  and  then  silence 


Eclipses  157 

reigned  once  more,  the  awful  silence  of  conscious 
things. 

IV 

When  Maironi  had  gone,  Jeanne  sent  the  foot- 
man to  bed.  She  rang  for  her  maid,  and  sent  her 
to  bed  also.  Then  she  went  out  to  the  terrace, 
shining  white  in  the  light  of  the  reanimate  moon. 
She  returned  to  the  dark  corner  among  the  warm 
foliage  of  the  roses,  stretching  herself  once  more 
upon  the  reclining-chair,  and  smiled  to  herself,  in 
her  great  happiness.  She  had  never  loved  before 
meeting  Maironi,  and  had  never  wished  to  love. 
Not  one  of  her  many  adorers  had  known  how  to 
awaken  in  her  soul  the  sense  of  her  profound 
femininity.  This  sense  was  only  half  awakened 
even  now.  The  warmth  of  the  spirit  had  not, 
as  yet,  passed  into  her  body.  Her  desires  did  not 
extend  beyond  the  continual  presence  and  the 
passionate  caresses  of  her  beloved,  the  possession 
of  his  soul,  and  the  right  to  encircle  his  neck  with 
her  arms,  to  rest  her  forehead  upon  his  shoulder 
in  moments  when  silence  is  better  than  words. 
Beyond  these  transports  and  caresses,  these  fleet- 
ing kisses  and  the  feeling  of  the  dear  arm  about 
her  shoulders,  her  repugnance  began.  Her  ec- 
stasies were  not  marred  by  the  slightest  fear  or 
remorse.  The  daughter  of  parents  who,  though 
unbelieving,  respected  religion,  she  had  .passed 
through  the  ascetic  fervours  of  convent  life.  Thus 
the  spirit  in  her  very  blood,  the  consciousness  of 


The  Sinner 


her  own  intellectual  superiority  over  those  who 
had  led  her  towards  piety,  the  critical  tendency 
of  her  mind,  her  reading,  the  conversation  of 
irreligious  but  highly  cultured  men,  the  well- 
known  unbelief  of  her  parents,  who,  nevertheless, 
sent  her  to  Mass  and  to  the  Sacraments,  and  made 
her  presents  of  prayer-books,  all  these  causes 
combined  had  brought  her  to  a  sort  of  serene 
fatalism,  from  the  summit  of  which  the  Christian 
dogmas,  God  Himself,  and  the  immortality  of  the 
soul  appeared  to  her  as  so  many  pleasant  delusions, 
noble,  indeed,  and  even  useful  to  such  as  did  not 
possess  in  their  own  nature  —  as  did  she  herself  — 
a  sense  of  moral  dignity,  at  once  restraining  and 
stimulating.  Her  pride,  her  desire  for  the  ap- 
probation of  others,  those  vague  moral  ideals 
that  with  her,  took  the  place  of  faith,  inspired 
her  with  a  disgust  for  adultery,  but  not  with 
remorse  for  a  love  which,  satisfied  in  the  way  she 
wished,  only  filled  her  soul  with  kindly  sentiments. 
She  knew  she  was  not  depriving  Piero's  wife  of 
anything,  and  her  scepticism  concerning  senti- 
mental delusions,  her  strong,  clear  understanding 
of  reality,  would  not  admit  of  remorse  for  an 
offence  which,  not  being  felt,  was  no  offence. 

The  pitiful  image  of  the  poor  mad  woman  never 
came  to  trouble  her  conscience.  She  had  indeed 
once  reflected  that  Elisa's  mother  would  suffer 
terribly  if  she  knew,  but  she  believed  firmly  in 
the  Inevitable,  and  such  sorrow  as  this  was  part 
of  it.  Even  love  itself  sprang  from  the  Inevitable. 


Eclipses  1 59 

Why  had  she  fallen  in  love  with  Maironi?  For 
his  qualities  of  mind  or  face?  No,  but  for  a 
Something  in  his  eyes.  Many  indeed,  had  spoken 
to  her  of  this  young  man,  who  was  so  intelli- 
gent and  cultured,  so  generous,  pious  and  un- 
happy, and  had  inspired  her  with  much  curiosity 
to  know  him,  particularly  to  ascertain  if  he  still 
loved  his  wife.  But  it  was  only  that  mysterious 
Something  that  had  enslaved  her.  Was  she  then 
one  of  the  many  who  are  at  once  attracted  if  a 
a  man  who  is  neither  old,  ugly,  nor  coarse,  but 
look  twice  at  them?  This  was  certainly  not  the 
case;  the  conversation  of  many  men  had  been 
pleasing  to  her ;  she  had  enjoyed,  the  admiration  of 
many,  and  had  not  always  been  above  a  mild 
flirtation,  but  at  the  very  first  meeting  with 
Maironi  she  had  felt  the  unexpected  hand  of  Fate. 
At  that  moment  she  had  become  a  slave  to  the 
Inevitable. 

Love  was  inevitable,  the  pain  it  might  cause 
other  human  beings  was  inevitable  also,  and  did 
not  therefore  fill  her  with  remorse  but  only  with 
pity.  Beneath  the  intoxication  of  Maironi,  who 
was  going  down  the  hill  with  her  kiss  upon  his 
lips,  a  bitter  leaven  was  gathering,  silently  and 
unobserved.  Beneath  Jeanne's  intoxication  there 
lay  the  cold  and  hidden  nucleus  of  her  scepticism, 
her  clear  vision  of  the  eternal  whirlwind  in  which 
her  love  and  her  conscience,  like  all  other  loves, 
all  other  consciences,  would  soon  be  dissolved. 
This  was  the  supremely  Inevitable,  and  did  not 


160  The   Sinner 

trouble  her,  but  rather  intensified  the  joy  of  the 
present  hour. 

She  believed  she  would  not  be  able  to  sleep  that 
night,  and  she  was  content  to  watch  the  setting 
moon,  to  inhale  the  fragrance  of  the  roses,  to  think 
of  him.  How  could  she  have  let  him  go  without 
asking  when  he  would  come  again?  She  caught 
sight  of  his  gloves,  lying  forgotten  upon  a  chair. 
Oh,  what  if  he  should  come  back  for  them  pres- 
ently? She  drew  herself  up  and  listened.  What 
folly!  She  determined  to  send  him  the  gloves 
with  a  note  in  the  morning.  Taking  them  up 
joyously,  she  kissed  them  again  and  again,  then 
smiled  at  herself.  Pausing,  she  put  her  hand  into 
one  of  the  gloves  and  smiled  at  herself  once  more, 
smiled,  at  her  chagrin  at  finding  them  so  large. 
She  could  have  sworn  Piero's  hands  were  small! 
A  ring  at  the  bell!  It  must  be  he! 


It  was  not  Maironi  but  Carlino,  who  had  arrived 
by  carriage  with  four  friends;  the  distinguished 
deputy  Berardini,  the  great  violoncellist  Lazzaro 
Chieco,  the  gay  Venetian  painter  Fusarin,  and  a 
certain  Fanelli  of  Siena,  a  critic  of  art  and  lit- 
erature, very  young  and  fast,  and  as  impudent  as  a 
Florentine  street-urchin.  They  had  started  from 
Venice  by  train,  but  had  left  it  to  take  a  drive  of 
thirty  kilometres,  and  enjoy  to  the  full  this  warm 
May  night,  and  the  eclipse.  They  were  followed 
by  the  driver  with  Chieco 's  violoncello.  Great 


Eclipses  161 

was  their  astonishment  at  finding  Jeanne  on  the 
terrace  at  that  hour.  She  was  acquainted  only 
with  Fusarin,  her  former  mad  adorer.  But  it 
was  Chieco  who  came  forward  first  with  wide- 
spread arms,  hat  in  hand. 

"  Divine  lady,  do  not  notice  these  good-for- 
nothings,  who  are  not  wwthy  of  your  attention. 
Only  I  am  worthy  of  it;  I,  Lazzaro  Chieco,  Cham- 
ber-violoncellist, or  rather  ante-chamber  viol- 
oncellist to  the  Almighty!" 

"Carlino!"  cried  Jeanne,  laughing,  while  the 
others  entreated  her  with  mock  gravity  not  to 
heed  the  master,  who  had  grown  childish.  "Are 
you  not  going  to  present  me  ?  Whatever  are  you 
doing?" 

Carlino  was  coming  up  the  steps  of  the  terrace 
backwards,  and  very  slowly.  "  Excuse  me,  ex- 
cuse me!"  said  he.  "Wait  a  moment!  I  learned 
this  in  Venice!  It  is  splendid!  It  is  good  for  the 
lungs  to  go  upstairs  backwards.  What  a  delight- 
ful sensation!" 

Fusarin  and  Fanelli  seized  him  and  dragged  him 
up  by  main  force,  while  he  cried:  "Better  still! 
Better  still!"  Meanwhile  Berardini  was  begging 
Jeanne  not  to  class  him  with  these  vagabonds. 
He  had  drunk  only  water  for  supper,  whereas 

they !    And  he  made  the  hypocritical  gesture 

of  feigned  ignorance.     Meanwhile  Carlino,  having 

re-adjusted  his  collar  and  cuffs,   his  cravat  and 

coat  collar,   proceeded  to  introduce  his  friends. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,  let  us  not  stoop  to 


162  The  Sinner 

these  commonplaces!"  exclaimed  the  honourable 
deputy.  "  Signora,  I  have  seen  you  ere  this  in  my 
dreams,  and  I  trust  you  may  have  seen  me.  These 
people  here  may  call  me  Berardini.  Your  brother, 
who  despises  me,  calls  me — 'the  Deputy  Berar- 
dini'; Fusarin,  who  hates  me,  calls  me — 'Com- 
mendatore  Berardini.'" 

"  Fiol  d'un  can!1'  grumbled  Fusarin,  "Sly  dog! 
How  careful  he  is  to  trot  out  all  those  titles 
of  his!" 

"Do  not  heed  these  fellows,"  the  honourable 
one  went  on.  "  You  and  I  understand  each  other." 

"Signora,"  said  Fanelli,  "I  will  allow  myself 
to  be  presented,  being  the  .most  respectable  of 
these  four  friends  of  your  brother's,  which,  indeed, 
is  not  saying  much!" 

Presently  Jeanne  looked  anxiously  at  Carlino. 
She  was,  of  course,  delighted  to  see  his  friends, 
but —  -  Chieco  forestalled  her  in  what  she  was 
about  to  say. 

"  Never  fear,  dear  lady!  We  are  not  provincials 
like  those  tiresome  fellow-citizens  of  yours,  who 
are  now  snoring  away  down  there  in  the  swamp. 
You  need  not  worry  about  putting  us  to  bed. 
You  are  the  one  who  must  sleep,  and  we  will  be 
your  dreams  to-night.  I  came  here  because  your 
brother  tells  me  he  has  a  splendid,  old  clavecin, 
and,  moreover,  I  wished  to  see  if  I  could  fall  in 
love  with  you,  and  if  you  could  help  falling  in  love 
with  me.  These  other  ragamuffins  form  my  suite. 
Very  well,  then,  now  we  are  going  to  have  some 


Eclipses  163 

music,  and,  if  possible  at  this  hour,  we  should  like 
three  or  four  cups  of  weak  tea  with  milk.  Fusarin 
and  your  brother  will  hold  a  consultation  con- 
cerning the  Tiepolesque  ball  you  are  thinking  of 
giving;  my  compatriot  Berardini  will  empty  out 
another  sackful  of  his  nonsense :  I  will  make  my- 
self generally  delightful,  and  at  sunrise  the  entire 
dream  will  vanish  into  the  East  in  a  landau!" 

The  servants  lost  their  night's  rest,  but  the  visit 
was  indeed  like  a  dream.  The  electric  light  shone 
in  the  great  hall  and  in  the  four  smaller  rooms  that 
surrounded  it,  all  admirably  decorated  with  frescoes 
by  Tiepolo,  in  honour  of  Homer,  Virgil,  Ariosto, 
and  Tasso.  Upon  the  walls  loomed  the  great, 
living  figures  of  the  heroes,  superb  in  the  harmony 
of  movement  and  repose;  there  were  princes  in 
gorgeous  cloaks  with  plebeian  faces,  the  fleshy 
and  glowing  nudities  of  peasant  princesses,  the 
colonnade  of  Aulis,  the  loggias  of  Carthage,  the 
Greek  tents,  the  rocks  of  the  Isle  of  Calypso  and 
of  the  Ebudae,  and  misty  backgrounds  of  sky  and 
sea.  A  warm  discussion  took  place  because 
Berardini  and  Chieco  were  wild  with  admiration 
of  the  frescoes,  while  Fanelli,  behind  his  eye-glass, 
was  coldly  and  sarcastically  critical.  He  picked 
flaws  and  pointed  out  the  scandalous  inaccuracies 
of  the  drawing,  until  Chieco  called  him  an  "ugly 
monkey,"  and  Fusarin  assailed  him  furiously. 

"What  ails  you  any  way,  Master  Faultfinder? 
Can't  you  let  the  poor  fellow  who  daubed  these 
walls  alone?  You  had  better  devote  your  atten- 


164  The  Sinner 

tion  to  scribbling  seven  hundred  articles  a  week, 
in  that  accursed  'suggestive'  vein  of  yours,  with 
your  colouring  and  your  goodness  knows  what  all 
that  is  so  '  highly  charged  with  modernity ' !  You 
blame  Tiepolo  for  painting  big  knees,  and  I  blame 
the  Almighty  for  giving  you  such  a  brazen  face!" 
Trlin!  Trlin!  Trlin!  Carlino  was  summoning 
them  with  the  clavecin  from  the  Homer  room,  while 
Jeanne  called:  "Music!  Music!"  "Enough! 
Enough!  Music!"  they  all  cried  in  chorus.  The 
whole  party  hastened  to  the  Homer  room,  all 
save  Chieco,  who  was  taking  his  violoncello  out 
of  its  case.  As  a  certain  Signor  Bach,  a  certain 
Signer  Haydn,  a  certain  Signor  Marcello,  and 
other  bewigged  personages  with  rapiers,  silk 
stockings,  and  diamond  buckles  were  about  to 
appear  upon  the  scene,  their  reception  must  be  a 
gay  one.  Champagne!  Fanelli  drank  gaily  to 
the  most  "  thrillingly  modern"  of  all  the  goddesses 
of  Villa  Diedo,  Berardini  improvised  a  grotesque 
tirade  upon  the  goddess  Diana  and  drank  to  her 
divine  brother,  Apollo  Dessalle!  Chieco,  raising 
his  glass  towards  the  fresco  representing  Ulysses 
standing  on  the  sea-shore,  lost  in  thought,  offered 
to  console  the  gentle,  sad,  and  lovely  Calypso, 
whose  bare  neck  and  shoulders  are  seen  rising 
out  of  the  waves,  and  proceeded  to  drink  to  her 
and  to  her  dressmaker.  Fusarin  drank  to  the 
"venerable  Diedo,  poor  soul,  who  built  this 
shanty!"  And  upon  Jeanne's  seeking  to  prevent 
the  opening  of  too  many  bottles  of  champagne, 


Eclipses  165 

Carlino  proposed  her  health  in  her  capacity  of 
gendarme:  "Pas  a  Jeanne  d'Arc,  mais  &  Jeanne 
d'armes!" 

Then  Bach  came  upon  the  scene,  the  god  Bach, 
as  Chieco  called  him,  while  he  abused  Carlino  for 
not  providing  wigs,  rapiers,  embroidered  waist- 
coats, knee-breeches,  and  silk  stockings  for  all  his 
guests,  in  a  villa  possessed  of  such  a  clavecin, 
where  Tiepolo  and  Bach  reigned.  "  Let  us  swear 
to  come  to  your  ball  thus!"  said  Berardini.  They 
took  the  oath,  and  then  Bach  began  his  little, 
serene  discourse.  A  crystalline,  tinkling,  childish 
voice  mingled  with  the  voice  of  a  jolly,  red-nosed 
old  grandfather.  Chieco  played  the  violoncello 
like  a  demi-god,  and  Carlino  handled  the  clavecin 
so  skilfully  that  his  companion  often  cried: 
"Bravo,  bravo!"  The  delicious,  eighteenth  cen- 
tury perfume  softened  all  hearts.  Jeanne  sighed. 
Fusarin  once  more  felt  the  veteris  vestigia  flammae, 
and  ventured  to  caress  her  hand  surreptitiously, 
whereupon  Jeanne  rose  with  a  faint,  tell-tale 
smile,  and  went  to  turn  the  pages  for  her  brother. 
Fanelli  guessed  what  had  happened,  and  grinned 
mischievously  at  Fusarin,  who  flung  himself  upon 
a  window-sill  and  puffed  incense  at  the  stars  from 
his  Manilla  cigar.  Berardini  scented  an  intrigue, 
met  Jeanne's  lovely  eyes  twice,  quite  by  accident, 
and  quivered  at  the  thought  of  a  gallant  adventure. 
Jeanne  felt  her  own  power  of  fascination  and 
gloried  in  it  on  behalf  of  him  to  whom  she  belonged 
in  spirit.  And  Bach  the  courtier,  went  about 


166  The  Sinner 

flattering  each  and  every  one  with  his  gentle 
sayings,  and  his  soft  laughter,  until  he  finally 
withdrew  with  a  graceful  bow,  and  a  sweep  of  his 
three-cornered  hat.  Berardini  applauded  loudly, 
and  immediately  found  an  opportunity  of  whisper- 
ing to  Jeanne  in  French,  that  he  had  not  heard 
anything ;  that  he  had  seen  her  alone ;  that  at  the 
coming  ball  the  characters  of  the  frescoes  must  be 
reproduced,  and  that  she  must  be  Calypso,  while 
he  would  be  the  sea!  "  L'amer?"  said  Fanelli, 
breaking  in  upon  this  speech.  "//  Vest  toujours. 
N'en  gotitez  pas!"  And  he  laughed  merrily. 
Silence  for  the  entrance  of  the  most  excellent  and 
noble  Marcello.  Chieco  summoned  Jeanne. 

"  Lovely  one,  do  not  listen  to  the  twaddle  of 
those  two.  Let  us  get  to  work.  But  don't  turn 
too  rapidly  as  you  did  just  now.  And  you,  over 
there,  are  to  behave  yourselves,  miserable  atheists 
that  you  are,  for  when  I  play  Marcello  I  believe  in 
God!  Avanti!  Begin!" 

It  was  the  fourth  sonata  for  violoncello  and 
piano.  After  a  trill  on  the  'cello  the  pious  Chieco, 
drawing  his  bow  across  the  strings  with  powerful 
strokes  cried:  "This  world  is  not  to  be  endured!" 
and  the  music  soared  upwards,  while  the  mighty 
chords  followed  close  one  upon  the  other.  "  With- 
out Calypso,"  Fanelli  whispered.  In  fact,  Fusarin, 
carried  away  by  the  violence  of  the  music,  had 
fixed  his  ardent  eyes  on  Jeanne,  and  was  beseech- 
ing her  with  every  vibration  of  the  violoncello. 
The  clavecin  seemed  but  ill-adapted  to  so  much 


Eclipses  167 

passion.  How  could  Beethoven  have  conceived 
his  sonatas  without  conceiving  the  modern  piano  at 
the  same  time?  Carlino  maintained  that  Beeth- 
oven's music  had  created  the  modern  piano,  just 
as  in  organisms  it  is  not  the  organ  that  creates 
its  power,  but  the  power  that  creates  the  organ. 
They  went  on  to  Corelli,  but  Carlino  was  tired ;  at 
the  second  page  he  made  a  mistake  in  the  time, 
whereupon  Chieco  called  him  a  thief  and  an  assas- 
sin, and  having  lost  his  companion  entirely  at  the 
second  "a  capo,"  he  jumped  to  his  feet  crying: 
"  We  shall  meet  again  in  time  for  coffee!  We  shall 
meet  again  in  time  for  coffee!"  While  the  others 
were  laughing  at  the  guilty  Carlino,  Chieco  drew 
Jeanne  aside  and  said  something  to  her  that 
provoked  a  quick  gesture  of  indignation  on  her 
part.  "It  is  nothing!  Nothing!"  cried  the  im- 
pudent, clownish  fellow.  "  I  can  say  with  my 
Venetian  boatman  when  I  ask  him  if  it  is  go- 
ing to  rain:  'Nothing,  nothing!  The  mountains 
would  like  to,  but  the  sea  will  not!"  And  with 
that  the  whole  party  passed  into  the  Iphigenia 
room. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  music-room,  Berardini 
detained  Jeanne  a  moment. 

"You  take  a  great  interest  in  a  certain  gentle- 
man who  aspires  to  become  a  senator,  do  you 
not?"  said  he,  with  glowing  eyes. 

"Not  much!  Not  much!"  Jeanne  answered, 
laughing.  She  had  indeed  made  some  efforts  on 
Marchese  Zaneto's  behalf  when  she  was  anxious 


i68  The    Sinner 

to  gain  the  Scremins'  good-will,  fearing  their 
suspicions  might  be  aroused  by  Maironi's  frequent 
visits,  and  that  they  might  influence  him  against 
her,  undecided  as  he  then  was.  Now  that  she 
was  sure  of  him  she  left  the  matter  of  the  senator- 
ship  entirely  to  Carlino,  who  was  beginning  to 
enjoy  the  intrigue. 

"Not  much  perhaps,  but  still  just  a  little," 
Berardini  replied.  "The  thing  is  not  impossible. 
There  are,  however,  several  important  points. 
First  of  all,  the  Marchese's  son-in-law  must  resign 
his  post  as  mayor,  and  give  up  his  party,  or,  if 
he  cannot  bring  himself  to  desert,  he  must  at 
least,  cease  all  active  opposition." 

"That  is  already  done,"  Jeanne  assured  him. 

"Ah!  So  much  the  better.  Another  thing, 
Signer  Maironi  owns  much  property  in  the  pro- 
vince of  Brescia,  and  his  agents  have  always 
recommended  abstinence  from  voting;  now,  at 
the  next  elections,  these  agents  must  bring  their 
men  up  to  vote  for  the  government  candidate. 
Then  a  means  must  really  be  found  of  checking  the 
rumours  that  are  circulating  concerning  the  Mar- 
chese's financial  position.  Finally — and  this  is 
most  important,  because  the  government  does  not 
wish  to  be  compromised — a  certain  influential 
statesman  whose  name  I  have  communicated  to 
Carlino,  and  who  will  undoubtedly  be  carefully 
sounded  by  the  Prime  Minister,  must  not  be  op- 
posed to  him.  I  believe  that  if  these  conditions 
are  respected,  the  matter  may  be  considered 


Eclipses  169 

settled.  Are  you  quite  satisfied?  May  I  hope 
for  a  slight  recompence?" 

Here  Berardini  lowered  his  voice,  and,  with  a 
silly  leer,  sought  to  take  Jeanne's  hand.  She, 
however,  was  quick  to  turn  her  back  upon  him. 

When  Chieco  saw  the  crestfallen  deputy  enter 
the  Iphigenia  room  behind  the  frowning  lady  he 
began  to  cry  out  once  more :  "  Bless  your  heart,  my 
master !  Nothing,  nothing !  The  mountains  would 
like  to,  but  the  sea  will  not!" 

Jeanne  joined  the  others  and  began  to  make 
tea.  Carlino  and  Fusarin  talked  of  the  coming 
ball;  discussed  the  question  of  requesting  the 
guests  to  appear  in  the  costumes  of  the  frescoes,  of 
thus  uniting  in  one  hall,  Iphigenias  and  Rinaldos, 
Agamemnons  and  Armidas,  Medoras  and  Didos. 
They  discussed  the  plan  of  covering  in  the  two 
terraces  of  the  villa  with  iron  and  glass,  in  order  to 
make  one  a  vestibule  and  the  other  a  supper- 
room.  Carlino  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  "odious 
iron,"  and  Fusarin  maintained  that  it  might  be 
completely  hidden  by  tapestries  and  draperies, 
while  that  little  snob  Fanelli  dropped  his  pinch  of 
worldly  wisdom  into  the  conversation  from  time 
to  time,  and  paraded  his  acquaintance  with  cele- 
brated halls  and  the  great  poets  of  decoration. 
Carlino  favoured  the  idea  of  using  tapestries 
simply  because  he  had  some  splendid  Cinquecento 
specimens,  for  which  he  had  no  room  at  Villa 
Diedo.  But  he  felt  sure  they  must  have  become 
perfect  hot-beds  of  germs.  They  might  spread 


i/o  The   Sinner 

some  horrid,  sixteenth  century  disease!  How 
should  he  go  to  work  to  get  them  properly  disin- 
fected ?  Would  their  sublime  skin  bear  an  applica- 
tion of  corrosive  sublimate? 

"Nonsense!"  cried  the  witty  Fusarin.  "How 
about  that  great,  long  beard  of  Calcante's  Cap- 
uchin, and  the  greasy  jacket  that  miserable  barber 
has  on,  who  is  kneeling  with  that  filthy  rag  in  his 
hand,  ready  to  catch  Iphigenia's  blood?  And  all 
the  long  cloaks  of  those  Greek  princes,  who  look 
as  if  they  loved  tobacco  and  strong  drink,  do  you 
fancy  they  are  not  full  of  germs?  For  my  part, 
I  assure  you  I  should  be  delighted  to  die  of  six- 
teenth century  pest!  It  would  be  splendid! 
Something  new,  at  least!" 

A  tilting  match  of  mad  sayings  concerning  life 
and  death  followed  this  outburst.  Berardini 
jested  and  laughed  as  bold-facedly  as  possible, 
and  Jeanne  found  it  hard  to  remember  that  she 
should  really  treat  him  rather  badly,  so  little  had 
his  impudence  affected  her,  and  so  often  had  other 
men,  both  the  stupid  and  the  intelligent,  been 
equally  bold  with  her.  He  declared  that  he  had 
no  consciousness  of  his  existence,  but  only  of  his 
apparent  existence,  and  that  this  was  a  balm  for 
all  ills,  for  all  fear,  and  in  no  wise  curtailed  his 
faculty  for  enjoyment — on  the  contrary,  it  en- 
hanced it,  because  it  removed,  or  at  least,  reduced 
to  a  simple  appearance,  that  difference,  between 
life  and  death  which  terrifies  the  masses.  Fanelli 
took  his  part  against  the  artists,  who  alone  at- 


Eclipses  171 

tempted  to  defend  the  absolute  with  a  fusillade 
of  anything  but  metaphysical  arguments.  Jeanne 
listened  in  silence  as  she  served  the  tea,  but  her 
eyes,  her  eyebrows,  her  brow,  even  her  shoulders 
at  times,  approved  or  disapproved  as  the  case 
might  be.  Her  disapproval  of  Chieco  and  Fusarin 
was  most  pronounced,  as  if  she  felt  especially 
vexed  that  those  two  should  be  on  the  wrong  side. 
Fusarin  was  the  first  to  notice  this,  and  he  ex- 
claimed angrily: 

"Of  course!  I  am  always  wrong!" 

"Certainly!"  Jeanne  exclaimed,  her  face  aflame. 
"  You  can't  help  seeing  it,  the  thing  is  so  evident. 
Every  one  of  our  certainties  is,  after  all,  a  cer- 
tainty only  for  ourselves,  a  relative  certainty,  and 
a  belief  in  the  possession  of  any  absolute  certainty 
is  a  pure  delusion!" 

Fanelli  and  Berardini  clapped  their  hands. 

"Perhaps  I  am  here,"  said  Carlino,  "and  per- 
haps I  am  not  here.  My  happiness  consists  in 
not  knowing.  But  pray  observe,  my  dear  Jeanne, 
that  you  appear  to  me  to  be  taking  up  the  cudgels 
not  so  much  against  Chieco  and  Fusarin  as  against 
my  sister's  secret  opposition!  I  hope  I  make  my 
meaning  quite  clear." 

"Nonsense!"  said  she,  and  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. Then  she  bestowed  a  smile  upon  Chieco 
who  asked  her  for  a  delusion  of  tea,  half  a  delusion 
of  milk,  three  delusions  of  sugar,  and  six  or  seven 
delusions  of  gauffrcttes,  for  perhaps  he  had  supped 
at  half -past  ten,  and  perhaps  he  had  not.  Fusarin 


172  The  Sinner 

more  in  love  than  logical,  swallowed  the  certainty 
that  there  is  no  certainty  with  his  tea,  and  con- 
tented himself  with  grumbling  to  Jeanne:  "  If 
you  are  not  here,  I  don't  want  to  be  here  either, 
by  Jove!" 

They  took  their  departure  at  dawn  to  Jeanne's 
great  relief,  and  she  went  to  bed  mortally  tired, 
but  happy  to  be  at  liberty  to  think  of  him,  of  him 
alone,  in  perfect  peace!  She  asked  herself:  "Is 
he  dreaming  of  me  now?"  And  then  she  laughed 
at  herself,  at  this  conventional  romanticism  which 
we  get  from  books  and  which  passes  into  our 
blood.  No,  his  dream  was  perhaps  of  the  town- 
hall,  or  some  other  silly  thing.  She  herself  would 
have  liked  to  dream  of  the  unknown  lake  of 
Valsolda,  in  the  moonshine,  of  being  in  a  boat 
with  him.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to  com- 
pose herself  to  sleep  and  this  dream;  she  tried  to 
see  in  her  mind's  eye,  the  lake  and  the  mountains 
of  which  she  had  no  idea.  She  could  picture  to 
herself  only  the  boat,  his  caresses  and  could  hear 
his  loving  voice,  but  she  could  not  go  to  sleep 
thus.  Then  she  began  to  think  what  a  bad  name 
some  spiteful  person,  perhaps  one  of  the  fast  men 
she  had  repulsed  or  perhaps  her  husband  himself 
must  have  given  her,  that  men  who  did  not  know 
her  should  dare  to  be  so  bold  with  her.  And  she 
thought  of  Berardini's  speech,  and  of  Marchese 
Zaneto,  of  the  influential  statesman  with  whom 
she  would  have  liked  to  become  acquainted  in 


Eclipses  i 73 

order  to  present  him  to  Maironi,  that  he  might 
combat  in  him  those  socialistic  tendencies  which 
were  so  displeasing  to  her,  which  seemed  dan- 
gerous and  ill-suited  to  his  delicate  and  mystical 
nature,  to  be  simply  the  fruit  of  his  imagination. 
Not  a  single  shudder,  not  the  slightest  anxiety 
came  to  warn  her  that  at  that  same  moment  her 
lover,  sleepless,  despairing  and  motionless;  was 
staring  at  a  spectre. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  COMMENDATORE'S  COFFEE 

I 

MARCHESA  NENE,  clad  in  black,  with 
stooping  shoulders,  her  waxen  face  wear- 
ing a  stern  expression,  her  hands  clasping  a  large 
prayer-book,  entered  the  special  chapel  in  the 
Cathedral  in  which  she  had  desired  a  Mass  to  be 
said,  in  thanksgiving  for  the  light  of  hope  that  had 
appeared  above  that  sad  asylum  which  was  never 
mentioned.  Maironi  followed  her.  The  chapel 
was  empty,  the  candles  not  yet  lighted,  and  the 
altar  still  covered.  But  when  an  acolyte  appeared 
and  began  to  uncover  the  altar  and  light  the 
candles,  the  few  dark  figures  scattered  among  the 
benches  in  the  one  broad  nave,  moved  towards 
the  chapel.  Two  of  the  Marchesa's  humble 
friends,  who  looked  like  two  little,  old,  female 
priests,  shrivelled,  and  clad  in  dark  garments, 
approached  her.  "We  are  so  glad!  We  have 
heard!"  they  said,  and  having  bestowed  a  slight 
and  circumspect  bow  upon  Piero,  seated  them- 
selves on  the  opposite  bench.  The  sour  man 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       175 

happened  to  be  there  also,  for  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  going  to  Mass  every  morning.  The  wife  of 
Soldini  the  journalist  was  also  present,  a  handsome 
woman  with  white  hair  and  bright  eyes,  who 
bowed  discreetly  to  the  Marchesa  without  ap- 
proaching her.  There  were  also  two  old  beggars. 
Last  to  enter  the  chapel,  with  a  heavy  tread,  was 
a  little,  grey  old  man  in  a  voluminous  overcoat; 
the  little  old  man  who  controlled  the  destiny  of 
Zaneto  Scremin  as  well  as  of  many  others — the 
Commendatore.  Being  very  near-sighted,  he  did 
not  at  once  notice  either  the  Marchesa  or  Maironi, 
Signora  Soldini  or  the  sour  man,  with  all  of  whom 
he  was  acquainted.  He  would  have  knelt  humbly 
upon  the  steps  of  a  confessional,  had  not  Signora 
Soldini,  moved  by  natural  courtesy,  and  the  two 
beggars,  moved  by  the  courtesy  of  the  mendicant, 
hastened  to  make  room  for  him.  Signora  Soldini 
whispered  to  the  new-comer  that  she  must  beg 
for  a  few  moments'  speech  with  him  outside  the 
church  after  Mass.  At  this  the  sour  man's  brow 
became  clouded,  and  his  judgment  of  his  fellow- 
men  more  harsh  than  ever,  for  he  also  was  bent 
upon  the  capture  of  the  Commendatore  on  leaving 
the  church,  with  the  intention  of  exposing  to  him 
certain  business  affairs  of  his  own.  The  Com- 
mendatore bowed  to  the  lady,  with  a  faint  smile 
of  assent.  Only  when  Mass  was  half  over  did  he 
suspect  that  the  man  standing  so  erect  beside  the 
old  lady  with  the  wrinkled  and  waxen  face  was 
Piero  Maironi.  This  discovery  distracted  his 


176  The  Sinner 

attention  from  the  Mass  for  such  a  length  of  time 
that  he  felt  he  had  been  guilty  of  venial  sin,  of 
which,  however,  the  purity  of  the  cause  was  an 
attenuant,  for  he  had  a  great  liking  for  the  ex- 
mayor,  and  could  have  wished  to  see  him  following 
a  better  path.  He  would  gladly  have  helped  to 
place  his  feet  on  such  a  path,  and  was  much  pleased 
to  see  him  in  this  place  and  this  company,  and 
he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  a  pretext  of  speaking 
to  him  after  Mass,  that  he  might  keep  in  touch 
with  him. 

Very  early  that  morning  Piero  had  sought  out 
his  mother-in-law,  for  he  longed  to  know  what 
the  physician  from  the  asylum  had  really  said. 
This  was  a  difficult  matter  with  an  informant  so 
awkward,  so  slow  of  speech  as  the  Marchesa,  who 
was  rendered  still  more  awkward,  still  more  slow 
by  her  sense  of  duty  which  forced  her  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  her  desire  not  to  tell  the  whole  truth. 
She  would  have  liked  Piero  to  content  himself 
with  the  words  the  invalid  had  traced ;  she  wished 
him  to  enjoy  them,  without  thought  of  anything 
else;  and  she  answered  all  his  questions  ram- 
blingly,  disjointedly,  only  to  return  over  and  over 
again  to  that  scrap  of  paper,  and  always  with 
renewed  longing  and  satisfaction.  With  his  know- 
ledge of  the  Marchesa,  of  the  involution  of  her 
mental  capacities,  of  the  chaos  that  enveloped 
them,  Piero  concluded  that  the  flash  of  conscious- 
ness apparent  in  the  painful  words  had  vanished 
again  immediately.  Presently  his  mother-in-law 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       177 

said,  with  her  usual  apparent  simplicity:  "Come, 
it  is  time  to  start,"  as  if  she  had  been  ignorant 
of  Piero's  new  mode  of  life,  for  ever  since  Praglia 
he  had  abandoned  all  religious  practices,  and  this 
from  a  sentiment  of  honesty.  Taken  thus  un- 
awares, Piero  had  not  at  the  moment  been  able 
to  find  an  excuse  for  not  going,  and  he  dared  not 
wound  the  old  lady,  for  whom,  after  all,  he  felt 
much  veneration,  and  so  he  had  accompanied  her 
to  the  Cathedral. 

Exhausted  with  his  long  watch,  with  all  the 
agony  he  had  suffered  through  his  imagination, 
his  head  was  full  of  sleep,  of  stupor  and  of 
weariness;  his  heart  seemed  benumbed.  Even 
the  passion  that  had  triumphed  lay  quiet  within 
him,  as  if  it  had  burnt  out.  He  felt  only  hatred 
of  himself,  of  this  sacred  place,  of  having  to  remain 
there  against  his  will.  The  sour  man's  surrepti- 
tious glances  exasperated  him,  as  did  also  the 
contrite  faces  of  these  worshippers,  stupidly 
prostrating  themselves,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  each 
before  a  tiny  mirror,  in  which  each  contemplated 
the  tiny  God  of  his  or  her  own  intellect.  It 
irritated  him  to  think  that  those  two  little  old 
women,  Signora  Soldini  and  the  Commendatore 
were  probably  commenting  in  their  hearts  on  his 
presence  in  church.  Even  his  mother-in-law's 
fervent  praying  seemed  to  him  simply  extreme 
weakness.  While  he  was  thus  yielding  to  the 
sinful  promptings  of  his  own  perversity  and 
hardening  his  heart  to  every  one  and  everything, 


i78  The  Sinner 

the  celebrant  preceded  by  his  acolyte  entered  the 
chapel.  Piero  recognised  Don  Giuseppe  Flores. 
This  was  an  unexpected  meeting,  and  it  vexed 
him.  He  would  have  preferred  some  pompous, 
obnoxious  priest.  He  could  not  possibly  pour  out 
upon  Don  Giuseppe  all  the  irritation,  all  the  con- 
tempt that  was  filling  him  with  bitterness;  and 
now  he  could  not,  he  would  not  look  upon  that 
face  with  a  longing  for  light  and  peace,  as  he  had 
once  done,  out  there  in  the  lonely  villa.  But 
neither  could  he  close  his  ears  to  the  grave,  sweet 
voice,  which  brought  back  to  his  memory  the 
rural  solitude  surrounding  the  silent  villa,  the 
little  room,  their  talk,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  red  sofa,  the  pious  words,  the  holy  lips  that 
had  rested  a  moment  upon  his  hair.  If,  during 
his  former  periods  of  temptation,  his  will-power 
had  been  exhausted  in  the  struggle  to  resist  with- 
out foregoing  the  sweetness  of  these  temptations, 
a  similar  state  of  paralysis  of  his  will  now  rendered 
it  impossible  for  him  to  drive  those  importunate 
and  disturbing  memories  from  him.  He  could  not 
prevent  his  senses  from  following  that  grave  and 
sweet  voice;  he  could  not  banish  from  his  mind 
the  vision  of  Don  Giuseppe  seated  beside  him 
on  the  red  sofa,  his  broad  thoughtful  brow,  his 
glowing  eyes  and  those  burning  words  that  might 
have  been  spoken  by  the  Holy  Spirit.  And  so, 
as  he  listened  to  the  celebrant  and  contemplated 
the  images  in  his  own  mind,  be  began  to  be 
conscious  of  a  dull  ache  deep  down  in  his  breast 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       179 

and  extending  towards  the  heart,  like  a  pain  that 
is  generated,  spreads  and  deepens  under  un- 
relaxing  pressure.  It  was  a  silent  pain  that  spoke 
neither  of  its  origin  nor  of  its  nature,  but  which 
spread  and  deepened  ever,  and  in  which  torment 
and  bitter  exhaustion  were  mingled  with  exaspera- 
tion against  this  pressing,  unrelenting  Force. 

When  the  celebrant  began  to  read  the  Gospel, 
Piero,  absorbed  in  the  sound  rather  than  in  the 
sense  of  the  words,  became  conscious  of  a  change 
in  that  sound.  In  uttering  the  words  of  our 
Lord,  the  celebrant,  filled  with  trembling  love, 
united  himself  in  spirit  with  Jesus.  That  voice, 
colourless  enough  in  expression,  almost  faltering 
indeed,  but  full  of  soul,  told  of  deep  consciousness 
of  his  lofty  mission,  of  his  sense  of  un worthiness, 
and  of  the  predominance  in  his  breast  of  the 
divine  over  the  human.  Piero  could  not  resist 
turning  his  head  to  gaze  upon  the  solemn  humility 
of  the  well-known  face,  that  face  with  its  antique 
outline,  and  he  felt  his  inward  distress  gradually 
change  to  dark  unrest,  and  then  become  a  violent 
commotion.  He  was  filled  with  terror,  and 
steeled  himself  against  himself  with  all  the  force 
of  his  now  reanimate  will-power,  and  thus  at  last 
silenced  the  tumult  within  him.  That  he  might 
not  again  lapse  into  this  state  he  began  to  think 
of  Jeanne.  He  reflected  that  at  that  moment 
she  was  probably  rising  from  her  bed,  and  he 
succeeded  in  kindling  in  his  mind  a  fire  that  was 
rather  sensuous  than  amorous,  and  such  as  had 


i8o  The   Sinner 

never  yet  burnt  within  him  either  when  in  Jeanne's 
presence  or  when  thinking  of  her;  a  fire  which  an 
experienced  healer  of  souls  would  have  pronounced 
a  symptom  of  declining  passion.  Exasperation, 
distress  and  the  images  Don  Giuseppe's  voice 
had  evoked,  were  all  reduced  to  ashes  by  that 
flame. 

They  all  left  the  church  together,  the  Marchesa 
serene  and  smiling;  Maironi  sullen;  the  lively 
Signora  Soldini's  expression  showing  her  eager- 
ness to  speak  words  that  her  eyes  were  already 
uttering;  the  Commendatore  meek  and  modest. 
When  he  had  saluted  the  ladies  respectfully  he 
turned  to  Maironi  smiling  half  benevolently,  half 
mischievously,  and  with  mock  timidity  as  if 
fearful  of  going  too  far,  uttered  his  little  jest: 

"  Now  that  you  are  out  of  work  .  .  .  out 
of  work  .  .  .  perhaps  I  shall  see  something 
of  you !  Remember  the  humble  and  the  outcasts ! 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  but  there  is  no 
hurry.  I  am  going  to  Rome  to-day.  I  shall 
return  on  Monday — not  next  week,  but  the 
week  after;  if  you  have  time  you  will  be  sure 
to  find  me  on  Monday  between  four  and  half- 
past." 

Then  the  Marchesa  and  her  son-in-law  at  once 
withdrew.  Signora  Soldini,  flushing  suddenly 
with  excitement,  asked  the  Commendatore  if  he 
had  noticed  how  deathly  pale  Maironi  was.  But 
the  Marchesa,  on  the  contrary,  how  unconcerned 
she  seemed!  She  was  indeed  an  enigma,  that 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       181 

Marchesa.  The  intimates  of  Casa  Scremin  said  it 
was  simply  virtue,  but,  good  heavens!  it  was  a  sort 
of  virtue  too  nearly  resembling  iciness!  As  the 
Cominendatore — who,  by  the  way,  had  noticed 
neither  the  pallor  nor  the  air  of  unconcern — did 
not  seem  any  too  well  pleased  by  this  vehement 
and  unnecessary  judging  of  other  people's  senti- 
ments, and  as  his  only  answers  were  muttered 
monosyllables,  the  lady  hastened  to  change  the 
subject,  and  said,  with  a  laugh,  that  her  con- 
science was  far  from  easy  because  she  had  really 
come  to  church  more  to  see  him  than  to  hear  the 
Mass.  Her  husband  wished  to  consult  him,  and 
begged  to  know  when  he  could  be  received.  The 
Cominendatore  answered,  perhaps,  not  over  cor- 
dially, that  he  should  be  delighted — delighted! 
and  planting  himself  firmly,  knit  his  brows  in  a 
soliloquy,  half  mental,  half  expressed,  in  a  sum- 
ming up  of  days,  hours,  meetings,  appointments, 
events  that  would  certainly  take  place  and  prob- 
able events,  from  which  summing  up  he  finally 
deduced  the  answer,  given  after  some  further 
hesitation,  that  he  would  receive  Signer  Soldini 
at  a  quarter  to  four  on  the  same  Monday  he  had 
appointed  for  Maironi's  visit,  and  exactly  five- 
and  twenty  minutes  after  his  arrival  from 
Rome.  Having  given  his  answer,  he  made  a 
low  bow,  and  walked  away,  to  the  great  chagrin 
of  the  lady  who  had  not  expected  this,  and  was 
somewhat  vexed.  The  sour  man,  who  had  been 
hovering  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  waiting 


182  The  Sinner 

not  without  impatient  twitchings  of  his  eye- 
brows and  jaws,  immediately  hastened  towards 
him. 

"At  your  service,"  said  the  Commendatore. 
But  at  that  moment  some  one  issued  from  a  narrow 
lane,  and  came  groaning  up  behind  them.  "  Com- 
mendatore, pray  don't  forget  me!  I  am  Bisata, 
Commendatore.  I  play  the  bassoon  in  mi.  I 
had  great  hopes  that  Sindaco  Maironi  would  get 
me  into  the  band.  Now  they  say  the  Liberals 
are  going  to  make  him  sindaco  over  again.  Pray 
speak  just  one  word  for  me,  Commendatore." 
The  sour  man  ordered  him  off  very  roughly,  and 
the  kind-hearted  Commendatore,  much  disturbed 
at  seeing  Bisata  turn  threateningly  towards  the 
man  who  had  interrupted  him,  pressed  some  coins 
into  his  hand,  and  dismissed  him  as  gently  as 
possible.  "There,  there!  Now  go,  my  good 
fellow!"  But  immediately  a  doleful  beggar- 
woman  approached  them.  "  I  have  been  waiting 
all  through  Mass  for  you,  bless  your  heart!  Will 
you  give  me  a  pair  of  old  boots?"  This  produced 
a  second  outburst  from  the  sour  man.  "  You  are 
a  woman,  and  you  ask  him  for  his  old  boots?" 
The  excellent  Commendatore,  once  more  greatly 
distressed,  produced  more  coins  and  some  kindly 
advice.  "There,  there!  Now  go,  my  good  wo- 
man!" At  last  the  sour  man  could  have  the 
interview  which  had  been  promised  him  in  the 
church  as  they  were  leaving  the  chapel.  He  also 
a  beggar.  He  wanted  a  license  to  sell  salt 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       183 

and  tobacco1  for  a  certain  female  relation  of  his 
who  was  somewhat  short  of  money.  For  himself 
he  wanted  the  Commendatore's  support  in  a 
dispute  he  was  engaged  in  with  the  tax  agent. 
"  Get  him  an  order,  do !  Perhaps  then  he  will  be 
more  amiable,  miserable  cur  that  he  is!"  The 
Commendatore  listened  to  the  whole  story  with 
admirable  patience,  asked  questions,  smilingly 
checked  the  sour  man's  outbursts,  found  excuses 
for  the  Royal  Office  of  Taxation,  and  at  last 
came  to  a  Quia  in  which  he  was  deeply  interested. 
He  inquired  jestingly  what  point  the  municipal 
crisis  had  reached.  What  was  going  to  happen 
after  the  mayor's  withdrawal?  The  sour  man  was 
amazed  at  the  question!  Had  not  the  Commen- 
datore heard  the  appalling  revelations  of  the  most 
illustrious  Signer  Bisata!  "Ah,  tut,  tut,  tut!" 
cried  the  Commendatore  like  a  second  Marchese 
Zaneto.  "Tell  me  seriously  now!"  Thereupon 
the  sour  man  scenting  danger  in  the  Commenda- 
tore's questions,  and  catching  sight  of  Marchese 
Scremin  himself  coming  towards  them,  his  face 
full  of  ready  words,  and  as  if  evoked  by  that 

1  Salt  and  tobacco  being  government  monopolies  in  Italy, 
the  government  usually  confers  the  right  to  sell  these  commo- 
dities upon  such  as  have  served  the  state  faithfully  as  soldiers, 
coast-,  or  customs-guards,  etc.,  or  upon  poor  widows.  The 
widows  of  generals  and  statesmen  have  often  been  only  too 
glad  to  accept  a  Rivendita  in  some  large  town.  In  such 
cases  the  business  is  carried  on  by  an  agent,  and  a  handsome 
income  is  in  many  cases  the  result.  The  lottery  agencies 
are  also  disposed  of  in  the  same  way,  lotteries  being  another 
government  monopoly. — Translator's  note. 


1 84  The    Sinner 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  exclaimed  that  the  Commen- 
datore  was  too  busy  just  now,  and  with  an  anxious, 
"Your  servant,  sir!  Your  servant!"  took  him- 
self off,  although  Scremin  called  out  to  him 
peremptorily  to  remain. 

The  Marchese  also  asked  for  an  interview  in 
order  that  he  might  have  an  opportunity  of  beg- 
ging for  far  greater  things,  but  the  Commendatore 
could  not  grant  the  interview  then  and  there,  and 
ended  by  giving  him  an  appointment  for  the 
famous  Monday.  Zaneto  was  somewhat  put  out 
by  this,  for  he  wished  to  speak  with  his  friend 
before  and  not  after  his  journey  to  Rome.  Mean- 
while the  two  had  trotted  on  and  reached  the 
Commendatore's  palace.  An  elderly  man-servant 
stood  in  the  door-way  chatting  with  a  postman 
who  immediately  advanced  towards  the  humble 
but  all-powerful  one,  and,  pulling  off  his  cap,  held 
out  a  paper  to  him.  "This  is  the  memorandum 
about  my  son,  Signor  Commendatore,  and  many 
thanks!"  The  Commendatore  took  the  paper 
with  a  good-natured  smile,  and  saying  he  must  go 
to  the  Library  at  once,  trotted  off,  hoping  also  to 
rid  himself  of  the  Marchese,  to  whom  he  could 
not  promise  any  balm  for  his  ulcns  senatoriwn. 
Scremin,  who  was  about  the  Commendatore's 
size,  but  much  older  than  he,  declared  that  he  also 
was  on  his  way  to  the  Library,  and  fell  into  the 
same  trot,  so  that  they  looked  much  like  an  ill- 
assorted  span  of  horses  being  shown  off  at  a 
country  fair. 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       185 

"I  have  so  many  things  to  tell  you,"  said  the 
broken  down  old  nag  on  the  left,  as  he  paused, 
panting  on  the  Library  stairs.  "  However,  I  must 
keep  it  all  for  Monday!  Meanwhile  don't  for- 
get. .  .  .  ;  Here,  in  the  unusually  short  and 
broken  phrases  which  his  trot  and  the  fatiguing 
stairs  had  enforced  upon  him,  he  named  the 
formidable  Minister,  to  whom  he  himself  could 
have  wished  to  be  recommended. 

"About  that  Dessalle  affair  also,"  he  added 
before  entering  the  Librarian's  room.  The  Com- 
mendatore  made  a  slight  gesture  of  surprise.  The 
Dessalles  had  inherited  from  their  father  a  law- 
suit with  one  of  the  small  American  powers,  and 
had  already  obtained  two  favourable  sentences, 
but  as  yet  had  been  unsuccessful  in  obtaining 
financial  satisfaction.  The  matter  had  become  a 
diplomatic  question,  and  the  Council  must  not  be 
allowed  to  go  to  sleep  over  it.  Some  time  pre- 
vious, before  the  meeting  at  Praglia,  Carlino  had 
begged  Marchese  Scremin  to  speak  to  the  Com- 
mendatore  about  the  affair,  and  the  Commendatore 
had  exerted  his  influence  on  behalf  of  the  Dessalles 
in  Rome,  with  that  kindly  zeal  of  his,  which  he 
was  wont  to  place  at  the  disposal  of  all  his  neigh- 
bours, even  the  most  distant,  did  they  but  ask  for 
it.  When  the  scandalous  reports  concerning 
Jeanne  and  Maironi  had  begun  to  circulate,  Mar- 
chesa  Nene,  although  she  made  no  one  the  con- 
fidant of  her  secret  anguish,  had  treated  Jeanne's 
affectionate  effusions  and  pressing  attentions  to 


1 86  The  Sinner 

herself  with  such  coldness,  that  Jeanne  had  not 
dared  to  persevere,  and  the  Commendatore,  who, 
though  a  silent  man  himself,  was  surrounded  by 
tale-bearers  who  were  acquainted  with  every 
detail,  was  well  aware  of  this.  Therefore  when 
the  Marchese  once  more  commended  the  affair 
Dessalle  to  his  especial  attention  he  smiled  in- 
wardly, like  some  wise  bystander,  looking  on  at 
human  weakness,  for  he  was  also  aware  that  the 
Dessalles  had  exerted  their  influence  in  ministerial 
circles  in  favour  of  Zaneto.  Zaneto  guessed  his 
thoughts  and  skilfully  avoided  the  invisible  shaft. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  he,  "  If  I  considered 
the  interest  of  the  town  I  should  not  ask  you  to 
help  them,  for  if  the  Dessalles  should  obtain  what 
they  demand — it  is  a  matter  of  millions,  you 
know — it  is  highly  improbable  that  they  would 
remain  here,  and  their  departure  would  certainly 
be  a  loss  to  the  city." 

This  answer  seemed  a  masterpiece  of  sophism 
and  indeed  so  it  was,  only  the  sophism  was  sincere; 
it  was  the  masterpiece  of  an  industrious  conscience 
but  not  of  industrious  lips.  The  clever  and 
learned  Marchese  of  the  left  cerebral  lobe  had 
contended  so  long  and  so  fiercely  with  the  scru- 
pulous Marchese  of  the  right  cerebral  lobe  that 
he  had  at  last  convinced  him  that  by  soliciting 
the  Commendatore's  support  for  the  Dessalles 
with  the  main  end  in  view  of  separating  Jeanne 
from  his  son-in-law,  he  himself  was  justified  in 
accepting  all  incidental  benefits  which  might 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       187 

accrue  as  a  natural  consequence  of  this  act,  such 
as  any  help  the  Dessalles  might  be  able  to  give  in 
obtaining  a  place  for  that  modest  loaf  of  dough, 
Zaneto,  on  the  great  ministerial  shovel,  in  anti- 
cipation of  the  next  baking! 

"Well,  well!  Good-bye,  good-bye!"  said  the 
Commendatore,  who  was  struggling  inwardly  and 
rigorously  with  his  own  sound  judgment,  which 
he  did  not  recognise  as  such,  but  mistook  for  a 
hasty  judgment  determined  by  his  rapid  walk. 

He  had  come  to  the  Library  to  hasten  certain 
researches  in  the  interests  of  some  who  were 
practical  and  of  others  who  were  poetical ;  of  some 
who  had  solicited  his  aid  in  proving  the  validity 
of  their  claim  to  a  fortune  and  of  others  who  had 
solicited  his  aid  in  proving  the  validity  of  their 
claim  to  a  title  of  nobility. 

"Tell  me  now,"  exclaimed  the  Librarian,  who 
was  becoming  exasperated,  "Is  it  really  true  that 
even  a  wet-nurse  has  been  to  you  for  a  recom- 
mendation?" 

"Yes,  yes!  It  is  true  enough!"  the  Com- 
mendatore answered,  but  added:  "  However,  I  am 
off  to  Rome  to-day,"  and  his  voice  cleared  in  the 
hope  that  the  necessary  delay  would  spare  him 
many  interviews. 

Then  the  Librarian  begged  him  not  to  leave 
without  having  spoken  with  one  of  the  assistant 
distributers  of  books,  and  he  rang  the  bell  to 
summon  him.  As  the  assistant  entered,  timid 
and  respectful,  the  Librarian  rubbed  his  hands 


i88  The   Sinner 

gleefully,  murmuring:  "Even  the  wet-nurses! 
Even  the  wet-nurses!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Signer  Commendatore," 
said  the  distributer,  "but  I  believe  you  are  the 
president  of  the  Committee  of  Supervision  at  the 
Institute  of  Technology." 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  heard  that  a  new  professor  is  expected 
there." 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  have  a  room  to  let,  and  if  only 
you  would  speak  a  good  word  for  me.  .  .  .  : 

The  Commendatore  got  out  of  this  as  best  he 
could,  and  the  assistant  announced  to  the  Libra- 
rian that  Marchese  Scremin  wished  to  speak  with 
him  as  soon  as  he  was  at  leisure. 

"  He  wants  to  speak  to  me?  I  hope  he  is  not 
going  to  ask  for  money!"  The  Commendatore 
started?  Money?  Why?  Were  the  Scremins  in 
financial  difficulties?  Yes,  indeed;  and  it  was 
such  a  pity  just  now  when  their  daughter  was 
beginning  to  recover.  Was  she  indeed  beginning 
to  recover?  Well,  at  any  rate,  that  was  the  latest 
news,  and  it  came  straight  from  the  sacristy  of  the 
Cathedral.  She  appeared  to  be  recovering,  and 
would  come  home  in  a  few  days. 

The  poor  Commendatore  who,  in  his  great  heart, 
had  an  especially  tender  spot  for  all  who  had  been 
born  within  the  encircling  city  walls,  in  the  out- 
lying districts,  or  even  beyond  the  paved  ways, 
in  those  suburbs  belonging  to  the  commune  which 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       189 

the  affection  of  the  public  benefactors  of  antiquity 
had  never  reached,  went  his  way,  saddened  by  the 
threatened  ruin  of  this  illustrious  family  of  his 
native  town,  his  conscience  pricking  him  because 
he  felt  he  was  grieving  too  deeply  over  the  ruin 
and  not  rejoicing  sufficiently  over  the  recovery 
which  had  been  announced  to  him.  Perhaps  it 
was  not  true,  but  if  it  should  prove  true,  then 
good-bye  to  the  Senate — good-bye  to  the  Senate 
indeed ! 

When  he  had  nearly  reached  home  a  little  man 
in  spectacles  came  hobbling  up  to  him,  a  clever 
and  honest  doctor  of  law,  whose  noble  political 
and  administrative  emotions,  which  were,  how- 
ever, purely  platonic,  kept  him  in  a  state  of  con- 
tinuous excitement. 

"  Well,  Commendatore,  so  the  Prefect  is  going?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  that." 

"  Why,  people  are  saying  it  is  you  who  have 
brought  about  his  transfer!" 

"I?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  because  the  Prefect  wishes  to 
push  matters,  and  get  the  Communal  Council 
dissolved,  and  you  are  opposed  to  this." 

And  the  little  man  laughed  boisterously,  to  give 
his  own  speech  that  gaiety  and  softness  which 
facilitates  the  swallowing  of  other  people's  speeches 
when  they  have  a  rather  bitter  and  hard  kernel. 

"  Do  you  know  what?"  said  the  Commendatore, 
somewhat  nettled.  "  I  am  going  to  follow  the 
moon's  example  and  go  into  an  eclipse!" 


190  The   Sinner 

And  he  disappeared  within  his  own  vestibule. 
II 

Don  Giuseppe  Flores,  absorbed  in  a  double 
vision,  was  praying  alone  in  the  little  church 
connected  with  his  villa.  It  often  happened  that 
he  would  pause  on  one  of  his  hill-side  paths,  and 
meditate  upon  the  greatness  of  God,  contemplat- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  the  magnificent  and  holy 
beauty  of  creation.  Thus  his  thoughts  were  now 
engrossed  in  contemplation  of  blessed  eternity, 
stretching  lofty  and  obscure,  above  the  outspread 
vision  of  his  long  life,  which  was  laid  bare  before 
him  in  such  a  manner  as  to  show  the  inner  side  as 
the  only  really  important  part.  He  did  not  see 
the  great  good  that  had  irradiated  from  him  upon 
so  many  souls,  in  ways  hidden  to  his  own  con- 
sciousness, without  deeds,  without  direct  words 
of  council  and  of  teaching,  but  simply  through 
the  atmosphere  of  his  own  pure  and  humble  being 
so  full  of  God.  But  he  saw  in  his  life  much 
sluggishness,  much  pettiness,  much  inactivity  and 
even  much  love  of  ease,  for  he  was  as  rigorous 
wTith  himself  concerning  the  desires  of  the  flesh  as 
he  was  lenient  with  others.  He  saw  traces  of  dead 
affections  which  had  been  bestowed  fruitlessly 
upon  delusive  phantoms,  and  which  had  vanished 
with  them;  traces  of  other  affections  bestowed 
with  too  much  ardour  upon  things  of  this  world, 
even  upon  the  house  in  which  he  was  now  praying, 


the  trees  on  his  hills,  the  flowers  in  his  garden. 
He  saw,  like  great,  shadowy,  empty  spaces, 
opportunities  for  doing  good  which  he  had 
neglected,  and  he  saw  how  the  merit  of  his  good 
works  had  been  minimised  by  absence  of  sacrifice 
on  his  part,  by  his  listless  obedience  to  the  divine 
impulse,  by  the  feeling  of  self-complacency  with 
which  he  had  weakly  regarded  the  good  he  had 
done,  a  sentiment  which,  if  not  actually  sinful, 
was  certainly  not  noble.  Thus  he  saw  his  whole 
life,  and  his  prayers  were  not  saddened  by  the  view, 
but  rather  became  more  tenderly  fervent.  The 
secret  reward  of  his  habit  of  attributing  to 
God  all  the  good  that  was  manifest  in  him,  and  to 
himself  all  that  was  not  good,  was  the  hidden  joy 
of  giving  himself  up  with  all  his  shortcomings  to 
the  Infinite  Mercy,  of  feeling  God's  presence  with 
an  ever  increasing  tenderness  of  love,  the  more 
freely  he  recognised  his  own  un worthiness.  When, 
in  consequence  of  that  natural  weakness  common 
to  all  humanity,  the  tension  of  his  spirit  became 
relaxed  and  other  thoughts  drew  him  uncon- 
sciously towards  themselves,  they  were  thoughts 
of  his  family,  all  of  whom  had  gone  before  him 
into  the  great  mystery,  some  in  obedience  to  the 
manifest  laws  of  nature,  others  in  obedience  to  the 
hidden  laws  of  accident.  Stern  souls,  joyous 
souls,  calm  souls,  ardent  souls,  all  had  passed 
through  the  world  bearing  the  torch  of  faith,  all 
had  departed  upheld  by  the  gentle,  supporting  arm 
of  Christ,  and  in  the  unadorned  and  modest  little 


The   Sinner 


church,     their    names    were    recorded   on   many 
tables. 

Don  Giuseppe  had  loved  his  family  with  the 
most  ardent  affection,  and  had  mourned  for  them 
with  rare  tears  full  of  the  holy  adoration  of  the 
Divine  Will.  Now  his  mind  wandered  to  dear 
figures  who  had  always  occupied  the  same  place 
in  the  little  church.  He  lost  himself  in  the  mem- 
ory of  faces,  of  garments,  of  attitudes,  of  cir- 
cumspect greetings  exchanged  in  the  holy  place. 
Then  a  consciousness  of  the  silence,  of  the  present 
emptiness  recalled  him  to  the  sad  reality  and  to 
his  prayers.  And  there  mingled  with  them  a 
breath  from  these  beings  invisible  to  the  living, 
a  vague  sense  of  remorse  that  he  had  not  satisfied 
some  innocent  desire  of  theirs,  neither  entirely 
concealed  nor  plainly  expressed;  that  he  had  not 
been  ready  enough  to  open  the  way  to  some  diffi- 
cult confidence,  that  he  had  not  been  the  first  to 
return  to  the  subject,  when,  the  way  once  opened,  it 
would  have  been  better  to  speak  out.  And  from  his 
last  memory  he  passed  unconsciously,  and  while  his 
lips  continued  to  pray,  to  that  other  memory  of  his 
talk  with  Maironi,  about  whom  he  had  since  heard 
grievous  things  without  making  an  effort  to  help 
him.  The  trotting  of  a  span  of  horses  and  the  noise 
of  wheels  sounded  on  the  road  in  front  of  the  prin- 
cipal door  of  the  chapel,  which  was  closed.  Don  Giu- 
seppe heard  both  the  trotting  hoofs  and  the  wheels 
turn  into  the  courtyard  of  the  villa.  Presently  the 
servant  came  to  announce  Marchesa  Scremin. 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       193 

He  went  out  to  meet  her  on  the  steps  leading 
up  from  the  courtyard.  The  old  lady,  clad  in 
decorous  black,  a  little  more  fleshless,  a  little  more 
wrinkled  and  waxen  than  usual,  hastened  up  the 
steep  stairs  in  deference  to  the  old  priest,  who,  on 
his  part,  was  hastening  to  make  the  dangerous 
descent  in  deference  to  her.  Don  Giuseppe  did 
not  venture  to  exhibit  either  gratitude  or  pleasure 
for  it  would  have  been  presumptuous  to  attribute 
to  simple  courtesy  a  visit  which  he  feared  must 
rather  be  attributed  to  some  unpleasant  cause. 
The  Marchesa  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  city  about 
a  certain  inscription  which  she  wished  engraved 
upon  a  medal,  and  which  she  had  begged  him  to 
compose,  desiring  him,  at  the  same  time,  to  give 
the  necessary  orders  to  the  jeweller.  But  it  was 
not  possible  her  visit  was  in  connection  with  this. 

For  her  part  the  Marchesa  seemed  determined 
to  hide  the  real  object  of  her  visit  beneath  a  tangle 
of  disjointed  and  irrelevant  phrases,  of  compli- 
ments upon  the  old  man's  hearty  appearance, 
upon  his  garden,  the  beauty  of  the  little  yellow 
pond,  swollen  by  recent  rains,  and  upon  the  geese, 
its  pompous  navigators.  This  led  her  to  speak 
of  some  ducks  which  she  herself  kept,  of  taglierini1 
boiled  in  duck-broth,  and  of  Zaneto's  tastes; 
Zaneto  did  not  like  goose.  Don  Giuseppe  smiled, 
not  knowing  what  to  say,  and  responded  only  by 

1  Taglierini :  A  sort  of  very  delicate,  home-made  maca- 
roni, of  which  the  Italians  are  extremely  fond. — Translator's 
note. 


194  The   Sinner 

gentle  monosyllables  to  this  rambling,  nervous 
discourse,  which  finally  came  to  an  end  when  the 
poor  tired  old  lady  found  herself  seated  on  the 
sofa  in  the  hall.  Then  it  was  Don  Giuseppe's  turn 
to  talk,  to  inquire  for  the  Marchese,  and,  hesitat- 
ing, and  in  a  subdued  voice,  for  that  other  person 
for  whom  he  had  celebrated  a  Mass  in  the  Cathe- 
dral a  few  days  before. 

A  look  of  quiet  grief  settled  upon  the  poor  old 
lady's  pitiful  face.  "Who  can  say  .  .  .  ?"  said 
she.  "Alas  .  .  .  !"  She  did  not  finish  her  sen- 
tence, and  during  the  long  silence  that  followed, 
two  tears  appeared  in  her  eyes.  Don  Giuseppe 
sighed,  greatly  distressed,  and  bowed  his  head 
reverently  before  the  secret  grandeur  of  this 
humble  creature,  whose  words  were  so  disjointed, 
and  who  hid  her  unfathomable  grief  so  carefully, 
and  submitted  so  meekly  to  the  bitter  decrees  of 
the  Divine  Will. 

"So  much  suffering,  Don  Giuseppe,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  Alas,  yes  ...  so  much  suffering,  and 
nothing  gained  by  it.  But  indeed  I  had  almost 
rather  .  .  .  She  was  silent,  and  tears  shone 
in  her  eyes  once  more.  Don  Giuseppe  believed 
he  had  grasped  her  meaning;  she  had  almost 
rather  that  her  daughter  should  not  recover  than 
that  she  should  see,  should  know.  The  Marchesa 
had  evidently  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  had 
understood  her,  for  without  having  uttered  the 
bitter  words,  she  presently  confirmed  them  with 
a  "Yes,  indeed!"  full  of  grief,  of  severity,  even  of 


The  Commcndatore's  Coffee       195 

disgust.  That  "Yes,  indeed!"  told  the  whole 
story,  and  Don  Giuseppe  made  a  gesture  as  if  he 
would  gladly  contradict  her,  but  could  not. 
"How  can  he  possibly  inflict  such  suffering  upon 
such  a  poor,  saintly,  unhappy  creature!"  Lenient 
as  he  was  towards  all  human  frailty,  he  abstained 
from  any  more  severe  judgment,  but  the  pleasing 
face  of  unholy  passion  had  never  seemed  to  him 
less  attractive,  nor  its  other  selfish  and  cruel  face 
more  repulsive. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  he,  "I  saw  him  in  the 
Cathedral  with  you  that  morning.  .  .  ." 

More  from  the  Marchesa's  expression  than  from 
her  confused  answers,  Don  Giuseppe  gathered  that 
although  Maironi's  conduct  on  that  occasion  had 
been  irreprehensible,  there  was  no  apparent  change 
in  his  attitude  towards  Jeanne  Dessalle.  It  was 
always  difficult  for  the  Marchesa  to  express  her- 
self, but  when  it  came  to  alluding  to  and  describing 
an  unlawful  passion,  fitting  words  really  failed 
her,  or  at  least  they  burnt  her  lips  so  that  no 
one  had  ever  heard  her  utter  them. 

Ever  since  her  wedding-day  she  had  been 
religiously  devoted  to  her  husband,  and  in  her 
heart  she  harboured  the  most  bitter  contempt 
for  the  sins  of  passion,  for  she  had  never  been 
tempted  and,  even  in  the  flower  of  her  youth,  had 
never  known  what  fancy  was.  She  was  most 
severe  with  her  own  sex,  and  she  judged  Jeanne 
with  great  harshness,  although  she  never  put  her 
judgment  into  words;  a  sense  of  her  own  dignity 


196  The  Sinner 

and  respectability  forbade  this.  In  speaking  her 
name  or  in  alluding  to  her,  the  old  lady's  face 
would  assume  a  dark  expression,  and  her  voice 
would  become  hoarse  with  the  same  gloom,  that 
was  all.  She  was  less  severe  towards  men  because, 
according  to  one  of  her  maxims  rather  iron  than 
golden,  she  believed  they  were  at  least  as  much 
seduced  as  seducers,  and  she  would  not  admit 
that  true  feminine  virtue  was  ever  assailed. 
However,  although  she  believed  Piero  had  been 
seduced,  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  the  long 
separation  from  his  wife  might  in  any  way  serve 
as  an  excuse  for  him.  Had  any  one  ventured 
to  suggest  this  to  her  he  would  simply  have  dis- 
gusted her,  and  have  forfeited  her  respect  as  well. 

"  I  always  treat  him  as  if  I  knew  nothing,"  said 
she.  "  And  I  speak  to  him  of  others  in  the  same 
way;  I  have  made  this  a  rule." 

It  was  a  fact  that  there  were  some  in  the  city 
who  laughed,  some  who  smiled,  and  others  who 
were  moved  to  sad  pity  when  the  Marchesa  uttered 
certain  ingenuous  praises  of  her  son-in-law. 

"I  have  also  thought.  .  .  ."  she  added  with 
hesitancy,  "well  .  .  .  I  don't  know!  Yes,  many 
things  .  .  .  many  little  things  .  .  .  there  might 
be  many  little  ways.  .  .  .  But,  indeed  I  can- 
not say.  .  .  .  You  understand,  Don  Giuseppe?" 

"Ah,  yes!  Yes,  indeed!"  said  Don  Giuseppe, 
who  did  not  understand  in  the  least,  but  who  was 
seeking  to  guess  her  meaning  or  to  help  her  as  it 
were,  with  a  spiritual  push. 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      197 

"Now  take  this,  for  example!"  the  old  lady 
went  on,  and  she  proceeded  to  tell  and  still  not 
to  tell  in  that  inimitable  style  of  hers,  of  the  fine 
web  of  intrigue  she  had  woven  around  her  son- 
in-law,  intending  to  gradually  gather  all  the 
threads  into  her  own  hands,  and  draw  him  away 
from  Jeanne  Dessalle.  But  so  far  her  intrigue  had 
been  fruitless.  Piero  had  never  devoted  much 
attention  to  the  management  of  his  property; 
this  duty  had  at  first  been  entrusted  to  Marchese 
Scremin,  who  was  himself  a  poor  manager,  and 
later  to  agents.  The  income  .  from  his  large 
fortune  was  far  less  than  might  reasonably  have 
been  expected.  Before  his  wife's  illness  his 
mother-in-law  had  urged  him  continually  to  visit 
his  estates,  watch  his  agents,  and  examine  their 
accounts.  Later  she  had  left  him  alone.  As 
soon,  however,  as  she  was  aware  of  the  danger  at 
Villa  Diedo  she  had  undertaken  a  secret  and 
arduous  task.  Her  son-in-law's  landed  property, 
situated  in  the  province  of  Brescia,  was  managed 
by  an  elderly  agent  who  was  in  the  habit  of  com- 
ing to  consult  Maironi  from  time  to  time,  as  he 
had  formerly  consulted  his  guardian,  Zaneto. 
Strictly  honest,  and  entirely  devoted  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  house  of  Maironi,  he  had  not  con- 
cealed from  Piero  his  opinion  that  the  best  means 
of  furthering  his  interests  was,  first  of  all,  to  take 
up  his  residence  in  the  place  where  the  greater 
part  of  those  interests  centred.  At  the  time, 
this  advice  had  been  most  unwelcome  to  the 


198  The    Sinner 

Marchesa,  and  she  had  hated  the  man  for  offering 
it.  Later,  feigning  anxiety  concerning  her  son- 
in-law's  affairs,  she  had  charged  a  trusted  friend 
to  inform  the  agent  that  anything  he  might  do 
to  persuade  Maironi  to  remove  to  Brescia  would 
meet  with  her  entire  approval.  At  the  same 
time,  being  partially  acquainted  with  Zaneto's 
financial  embarrassments,  she  had  suggested  to 
him  that  a  change  of  residence  might  be  advisable ; 
that  if  they  were  at  a  distance  from  their  relatives 
and  friends  it  would  be  far  easier  to  practise 
certain  economies,  and  that  Elisa,  should  she  return 
to  her  family,  would  certainly  prefer  to  be  where 
she  was  not  so  well  known.  Piero's  mayorship 
had  been  a  great  stumbling-block.  Hardly  had 
she  learned  of  the  crisis,  and  thanked  God  in  her 
heart  for  it,  than  she  was  terrified  by  the  thought 
of  the  peace-makers  who  might  seek  to  bring  about 
a  reconciliation  between  the  mayor  and  his 
colleagues.  She  thought  of  the  sour  man,  and 
without  breathing  a  word  to  him  personally,  suc- 
ceeded in  letting  him  know  that  she  was  anxious 
about  Maironi's  affairs,  that  she  considered  the 
crisis  a  most  fortunate  occurrence  for  her  son- 
in-law,  and  that  she  would  be  far  from  grateful 
to  any  one  seeking  to  reinstate  him  at  the  town- 
hall.  This  with  the  intention  of  encouraging  the 
man  to  sprinkle  his  acid  even  more  freely  than 
usual.  She  had  twice  spoken  to  her  son-in-law 
about  the  financial  embarrassments  in  which  her 
husband  was  involved.  The  first  time  she  had 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      199 

calmly,  almost  jestingly,  given  him  a  hint  of  her 
intention:  " Sooner  or  later,  my  dear  boy,  we  shall 
all  have  to  go  and  live  at  what's-its-name!" 
meaning  Brescia.  The  second  time  she  had  been 
more  bold  and  more  absurd,  and  had  talked  of 
selling  the  palace  and  all  their  estates,  and  of 
going  to  live  in  the  Maironi  house  in  Brescia: 
"And  if  you  won't  come,  we  poor  old  folks  must 
go  alone!" 

Telling  and  still  not  telling  in  her  own  peculiar 
way  of  the  many  fine  threads  of  her  well-meant 
intrigues,  she  snarled  them  so  hopelessly  that  at 
a  certain  point  Don  Giuseppe  was  completely 
lost,  and  she  herself  was  so  entangled  in  her  own 
web  that  her  interlocutor  despaired  of  her  ever 
extricating  herself.  But  she  continued  her  recital 
unabashed,  although  it  now  became  more  ram- 
bling and  more  incomprehensible  than  ever, 
getting  ever  farther  afield,  bringing  out,  in  her 
throaty  voice,  words  that  clashed  together,  and 
holding  fast  to  the  one  obscure  idea  that  possessed 
her  mind,  which  she  wished  and  still  did  not  wish 
to  disclose.  Don  Giuseppe  began  to  grow  uneasy. 
The  very  hopelessness  of  the  Marchesa's  ramblings 
amidst  an  ever  increasing  gloom,  and  the  light- 
ning-flash of  an  occasional  "  We  must  do  so  and 
so,"  convinced  him  that  her  mind  held  a  definite 
plan,  and  knowing  that  she  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  announcing  her  innermost  thoughts  without 
preamble,  the  idea  struck  him  that  she  had  as- 
signed a  part  in  this  plan  to  himself,  not  an  easy 


2oo  The   Sinner 

part,  and  one,  he  feared,  not  proportioned  to  his 
real  capacity.  Finally  the  Marchesa  reached  this 
conclusion,  which  was  none  the  less  startling 
because  it  was  expected :  "  Don  Giuseppe,  is  my 
meaning  quite  clear  to  you?" 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  respectfully,  and  then 
lapsed  into  silence.  As  the  silence  was  becoming 
prolonged  he  added,  greatly  embarrassed:  "Well, 
perhaps  not  quite!" 

The  Marchesa  smiled  sadly  and  beseechingly: 
"You  must  speak,  Don  Giuseppe." 

To  whom  must  he  speak?  After  passing  his 
hand  across  his  forehead  several  times  as  if  to 
clear  his  brain  and  free  it  from  a  troublesome 
pre-occupation,  Don  Giuseppe  ventured  to  inquire. 

"Well,"  the  Marchesa  replied,  "to  Zaneto 
first." 

Don  Giuseppe  hesitated  slightly  and  made  a 
wry  face,  while  the  Marchesa  rambled  on  once 
more,  but  this  time  somewhat  less  incoherently. 

"  You  see,  I  really  don't  know  what  to  do.  He 
has  got  the  Senate  into  his  head.  He  is  quite 
set  upon  it  I  assure  you.  Even  if  they  should 
make  him  a  Senator — which  I  don't  believe  they 
ever  will — what  good  would  come  of  it  ?  Nothing 
but  expense." 

Here  the  Marchesa  confided  to  him  as  best  she 
could,  something  that  was  particularly  bitter  to 
her.  Zaneto  even  went  to  "that  house"  in  order 
to  obtain  the  Dessalles'  support!  "He  says  that 
is  the  best  way  to  show  the  world  there  is  nothing 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      201 

wrong,  but  I  say  he  has  no  business  to  go  there." 
And  then  she  returned  to  the  question  of  expense 
once  more.  She  told  of  her  husband's  difficulties. 
She  declared  they  all  arose  from  his  excessive 
kind-heartedness,  "  for  he  must  needs  give  largely 
in  charity,  and  keep  tenants  who  did  not  pay 
their  rent,  and  do  this,  that,  and  the  other  with 
his  money."  Goodness  knows  what  would  have 
happened  if  she  had  not  always  done  her  best 
to  check  his  generosity !  And  now  she  was  coming 
to  the  worse  phase  of  the  matter. 

A  worthy  person,  whom  she  would  not  name, 
"a  thorough  rascal,  I  assure  you!"  had  insinuated 
to  Zaneto  that  they  would  not  make  him  a  "  what- 
you-may-call-it ! "  in  other  words,  a  Senator,  on 
account  of  the  unpleasant  rumours  concerning  his 
financial  position,  and  that  in  order  to  make  sure 
of  his  nomination  he  must  give  "I  don't  know 
how  much  to  I  don't  know  whom,"  to  the  in- 
curables, or  the  orphans,  or  the  waifs  and  strays, 
or  the  scurvy  hospital,  "to  anything  he  himself 
may  be  in  want  of  money  for,  I  believe!  Just 
fancy  that!" 

Don  Giuseppe  did  indeed  deplore  these  misfor- 
tunes, but  he  knew  of  no  remedy  to  recommend, 
and  he  did  not  see  by  what  right  he  could  present 
himself  before  the  Marchese  and  proceed  to 
lecture  him. 

"  But  it  is  your  place  to  do  this,  Marchcsa,"  said 
he.  "  How  could  I  possibly  hope  to  move  him 
if  you  yourself  are  not  successful?" 


202  The    Sinner 

The  Marchesa  shook  her  head,  sighed  and  con- 
fessed her  own  incapacity.  "  I  cannot  indeed, 
Don  Giuseppe.  He  is  the  best  of  men,  but  we 
do  not  understand  each  other." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  if  the  old  lady's  eloquence 
was  halting  and  heavy,  her  husband's,  on  the 
contrary,  was  eminently  subtle  and  easy.  In  all 
questions  she  perceived  only  the  unswerving 
reasons  of  simple  justice,  while  he  perceived  the 
tortuous  reasons  of  a  justice  ready  to  make  con- 
cessions as  occasion  might  demand.  Her  argu- 
ments were  derived  from  a  narrow  circle  of 
notions  and  ideas,  his  from  the  broader  field  of 
his  superior  culture  and  rhetoric. 

To  her  the  senatorial  chair  meant  only  vanity 
and  expense.  By  a  curious  coincidence,  in  her 
practical  scepticism,  her  most  philosophical  argu- 
ment against  her  husband's  ambitions  closely 
resembled  the  argument  with  which  Jeanne,  in 
her  theoretical  scepticism,  had  almost  derided 
her  friend's  nascent  socialistic  leanings:  neither 
Zaneto's  presence  at  Palazzo  Madama1  nor,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  the  chatterings  of  all  the 
other  senators  either,  would  influence  the  very 
least  of  the  world's  affairs  in  the  very  slightest 
degree.  In  vain  the  worthy  Zaneto,  not  daring  to 
retort  that  he  was  more  than  willing  to  respect  the 
pre-established  arrangement  of  the  world's  affairs, 
strove  to  point  out  to  her  the  difference  between 

1  Palazzo  Madama :  The  palace  in  Rome  where  the  Senate 
meets. —  Translator's  note. 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      203 

guilty  ambition  and  legitimate  ambition,  a  senti- 
ment it  is  our  duty  to  cultivate.  In  vain  he 
talked  of  the  services  he  might  render  to  religion, 
services  which  would  cost  him  nothing  but 
his  vote.  In  speaking  thus  he  really  believed  in  his 
own  sincerity,  and  succeeded  in  proving  it  to 
his  incredulous  wife,  who  wras  continually  harping 
upon  ambition  and  vanity.  He  explained  to  her 
that  he  was  made  of  the  same  clay  as  other  men ; 
that  he  was  conscious  of  not  being  entirely  free 
from  certain  aspirations  which  were,  perhaps,  not 
of  a  very  noble  nature;  but  that,  as  he  perceived 
in  his  conscience  a  quantity  of  good  reasons  rising 
above  these  aspirations  and  almost  concealing 
them,  he  was  under  no  obligation  to  examine  him- 
self more  deeply,  for  man  must  be  charitable  even 
towards  himself,  and  must  abstain  from  such  in- 
vestigations of  himself  as  he  would  consider  it  un- 
charitable to  practise  upon  others.  His  wife 
dazed  and  exasperated,  waved  aside  all  this 
psychology  and  casuistry,  which  was  to  her  simply 
an  incomprehensible  Icgogriph. 

She  had  therefore  given  up  attempting  to 
convert  Zaneto  herself,  as  she  once  more  assured 
Don  Giuseppe,  who  sighed  and  kept  moving  his 
shoulders  and  head  wearily,  as  if  lifting  a  great 
weight. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  said  he. 

Regardless  of  his  words  and  gestures  the  daunt- 
less old  lady,  seeming  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
he  would  be  her  ambassador,  proceeded  to  unfold 


204  The    Sinner 

a  fresh  mission,  with  which  he  was  to  be  entrusted, 
and  of  which  the  poor  man  had  not  had  the 
slightest  suspicion.  She  rambled  on  for  some 
time  concerning  her  own  possessions  not  included 
in  her  dowry,  and  which  she  had  reserved  and 
guarded  jealously,  in  an  almost  miserly  fashion 
indeed,  for  love  of  her  daughter,  that  they  might 
not,  as  she  told  Don  Giuseppe,  "  be  swallowed  up 
in  the  great  caldron,"  the  great  Scremin  caldron, 
which  was  badly  cracked  by  many  debts.  Hers 
was  a  handsome  fortune,  and  up  to  the  present 
moment  the  worthy  Marchesa  had  never  been 
willing  to  contribute  either  money  or  her  signature 
towards  mending  the  cracks  in  the  great  caldron. 

"But  if  it  is  necessary,  Don  Giuseppe,"  said 
she,  "  I  will  let  it  go." 

This  then  was  Marchesa  Nene's  secret  thought, 
the  thought  she  had  kept  back  as  long  as  possible, 
the  true  and  only  reason  of  her  visit,  and  it  had 
at  last  reached  her  lips  by  the  strangest  and  most 
roundabout  ways,  had  fallen  from  them  almost 
as  an  idea  that  had  but  then  germinated  in  her 
brain. 

She  had  conceived  the  thought  long  before,  and 
had  allowed  it  to  ripen  slowly,  with  the  intention 
of  producing  it  when  the  right  moment  should 
have  arrived.  This  was  her  idea:  she  would 
propose  to  Zaneto  to  pour  her  fortune  into  the 
famous  caldron — the  contents  of  which  should 
henceforth  be  stirred  only  by  a  reliable  man  of 
business — on  condition  that  all  the  estates  and 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      205 

the  palaces  of  the  Scremins  be  sold,  and  that  the 
family  remove  to  Brescia.  Meanwhile  she  had 
made  secret  inquiries  concerning  the  real  state  of 
her  husband's  affairs,  concerning  the  market 
value  of  his  possessions  and  of  her  own.  Having 
heard  that  the  Office  of  Public  Works  was  seeking 
for  more  convenient  quarters,  she  had  cautiously 
questioned  one  of  the  pawns  at  the  Prefecture, 
in  order  to  ascertain  how  matters  really  stood, 
that  she  might  eventually  offer  the  Scremin 
palace.  She  had  even  carried  her  jewels  to  Venice 
to  have  them  appraised.  She  had  prevailed  upon 
the  physician  who  had  brought  the  precious  words 
from  Elisa,  to  give  her  a  sort  of  official  warning 
in  writing,  to  the  effect  that,  should  Elisa  leave 
the  asylum  cured,  it  would  be  wise  to  remove  her 
to  entirely  new  surroundings.  Upon  discovering 
that  the  director  of  a  certain  charitable  institution, 
with  whom  Zaneto  was  intimate,  was  endeavour- 
ing to  extort  a  large  donation  from  him,  she  be- 
came alarmed,  and,  convinced  that  the  proper 
time  was  come,  spoke  to  Zaneto.  Zaneto  was 
touched,  he  wept  with  gratitude,  embraced  his 
wife,  calling  her  "his  dear  old  woman,"  and  then 
confessed  to  her  in  a  pathetic  tone,  his  great 
affection,  not  so  much  for  the  house  and  lands 
of  his  ancestors,  as  for  his  native  town.  If  God 
should  grant  them  the  great  blessing  of  this 
recovery,  a  temporary  absence  would  suffice,  a 
journey,  a  short  sojourn  in  some  other  place. 
At  any  rate  that  could  be  arranged  later.  Why 


206  The   Sinner 

bring  about  such  an  upheaval,  such  a  cataclysm 
indeed,  in  anticipation  of  events,  which  unfor- 
tunately, were  still  most  uncertain?  The  Mar- 
chesa  had  then  tried  to  paint  the  danger  at  Villa 
Diedo,  but  had  done  this  so  awkwardly  and 
unskilfully  that  the  worthy  Zaneto  had  had  no 
difficulty  in  sweeping  her  arguments  aside  with 
an  outburst  of  optimistic  rhetoric,  after  which  he 
inquired  very  humbly  why  she  had  made  her 
conditions  so  hard.  Here,  however,  he  met  with 
firm  resistance.  The  "  dear  old  woman  "  answered 
resolutely  that  she  wanted  him  to  "  settle  down," 
and  that  the  only  way  for  him  to  "settle 
down"  was  the  way  she  had  proposed.  Then 
the  frowning  Zaneto  entrenched  himself  behind 
his  dignity.  He  could  not  imagine  what  she 
meant  by  "  settling  down."  He  was,  thank  God, 
not  aware  of  having  failed  in  any  of  his  domestic 
duties.  Should  a  domestic  duty  render  it  neces- 
sary for  him  to  transfer  his  residence  elsewhere 
he  should  have  the  strength  to  fulfil  that  duty 
without  the  support  of  pre-established  stipula- 
tions and  conditions.  Did  Madam  not  under- 
stand that  her  conditions  were  offensive?  But 
this  Madam  refused  to  understand,  and  became 
more  inflexible  than  ever,  so  inflexible  indeed  that 
Zaneto  in  his  turn,  refused  to  continue  the 
discussion. 

The  Marchesa  now  proceeded  to  explain  to  Don 
Giuseppe  both  her  plan  and  the  message  he  must 
deliver  to  Zaneto'  and  ever  faithful  to  her  habit 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      207 

of  reticence,  she  refrained  from  informing  him  of 
her  own  direct  attempt  and  defeat.  She  feared 
that,  knowing  this,  Don  Giuseppe  might  refuse  to 
act  as  her  ambassador,  or,  that  his  action  might 
lack  that  confidence  which  is  always  a  power  in 
itself.  Don  Giuseppe  gazed  at  the  old  lady  in 
astonishment  and  admiration!  He  had  always 
believed  her  to  be  particularly  fond  of  worldly 
goods,  to  be  deeply  attached  to  her  possessions, 
and  had  thought  she  would  rather  die  than  give 
up  her  house,  her  church,  and  her  old  friends,  and 
change  her  habits.  She  who,  out  of  affection  for 
her  daughter,  and  an  innate  love  of  order,  had 
constituted  herself  the  jealous  guardian  of  her 
own  interests,  now  sat  there  before  him  in  her 
utter  confusion  of  mind,  as  far  from  believing  that 
she  had  spoken  words  worthy  of  the  deepest 
admiration,  as  that  she  had  spoken  Greek.  Don 
Giuseppe  did  not  know  how  he  should  accomplish 
the  mission  with  which  he  was  entrusted,  but 
he  felt,  before  God,  that  he  must  not  refuse  to  try. 
He  consented,  and  once  more  began  to  smooth  his 
brow  with  the  five  outspread  fingers  of  his  right 
hand,  pressing  them  hard  and  then  slowly  drawing 
them  together  in  a  bunch  only  to  spread  them  out 
and  draw  them  together  again,  like  one  much 
perplexed  by  some  abstruse  calculation.  While 
he  was  thus  laboriously  thinking  the  matter  out, 
the  Marchesa  unexpectedly  announced  that  she 
had  another  favour  to  ask  of  him.  The  old  priest 
raised  his  head,  his  face  wearing  an  ingenuous 


208  The    Sinner 

expression  of  astonishment,  which  said  plainly 
enough:  Another?  Do  you  not  think  that  one 
which  already  oppresses  me  is  sufficient?  The 
Marchesa  did  not  appear  to  notice  him,  and  all 
unabashed,  proceeded  to  tell  him  of  the  great 
esteem  in  which  Piero  held  the  Commendatore, 
with  whom  he  had  had  many  dealings  while  he 
was  mayor.  If  the  Commendatore  could  be  per- 
suaded to  do  so,  he  might  exert  a  very  good 
influence  over  Piero.  Some  one  must  beg  him 
to  try,  beg  him  to  arrange  to  see  more  of  Piero, 
to  attach  him  as  much  as  possible  to  himself.  It 
was  a  well-known  fact  that  the  Commendatore 
had  the  deepest  reverence  for  Don  Giuseppe ;  who 
could  therefore  perform  this  mission  better  than 
he?  This  was  not  a  difficult  undertaking,  and 
Don  Giuseppe  demurred  only  at  the  "deepest 
reverence."  Indeed  he  said  not  a  word,  but 
simply  made  a  gesture  of  compassion  for  the 
sadly  mistaken  idea  of  him  that  this  good  man 
had  conceived.  Meanwhile  the  usual  rural  man- 
servant had  appeared  with  the  usual  cups  of 
coffee,  and  the  cautious  old  lady,  assuming  her 
habitual,  placid  expression,  immediately  brought 
the  conversation  back  to  the  geese  on  the  little 
lake.  She  must  go  and  have  a  closer  view  of 
those  geese  before  leaving.  As  she  rose  with 
Don  Giuseppe  intending  to  walk  about  the  garden, 
the  Marchesa  requested  the  countryman  to  "tell 
Giacomo,"  and  was  quite  satisfied  that  she  had 
thus  imparted  to  Giacomo  the  explicit  order  to 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      209 

harness  the  horses.  "Giacomo?"  the  rustic  said 
to  himself.  "That  must  be  the  coachman.  But 
what  am  I  to  tell  him?  Well,  he  must  guess  that 
for  himself! "  And  he  departed  with  the  laudable 
intention  of  repeating  the  message  word  for  word. 
But  Giacomo  was  not  the  coachman  who  had 
driven  Marchesa  Nene  to  Villa  Flores;  Giacomo 
was  the  name  of  a  long  since  defunct  coachman  of 
the  house  of  Scremin,  the  emblematic  name  which 
the  Marchesa  calmly  bestowed  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  and  whether  they  liked  it  or  not,  upon  the 
Beppis,  the  Tonis,  and  the  Titas  who  had  preceded 
the  Checco  of  the  present  moment  in  her  service. 

A  grouping  of  clear  notes  around  the  calm 
movement  of  a  slow  melody,  neither  gay  nor  sad, 
would  alone  have  the  power  to  express  that  in- 
tangible, inward  something  which  escapes  the 
poet  when  he  seeks  to  describe  the  slow  progress 
of  Don  Giuseppe  and  the  Marchesa  among  the 
grasses  swaying  in  the  wind  beneath  the  flickering 
shadows  of  the  silvery  clouds,  among  the  bushes, 
the  whispering  of  whose  leaves  was  interrupted 
by  the  sad,  persistent  notes  and  the  soaring  runs 
of  nightingales.  The  couple  exchanged  hardly  a 
word,  and  therefore  only  music  could  describe 
this  silence  so  full  of  meaning,  this  not  uncon- 
scious communing  of  their  souls,  a  communing 
expressive  of  mutual  pity;  the  Marchesa  reflect- 
ing how  the  old  priest,  cherishing  a  gentle,  poetic 
hope,  had  prepared  these  beautiful  surroundings 

14 


210  The  Sinner 

for  his  dear  ones,  now,  alas,  all  descended  to  the 
grave;  Don  Giuseppe  reflecting  upon  the  kindness 
of  this  sorrowing,  weary  woman,  who,  to  please 
him,  was  exhibiting  such  an  interest  in  his  garden ; 
the  hearts  of  both  were  soothed,  meanwhile,  by 
that  most  lasting  of  earth's  pleasures,  a  calm 
appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  which  their  afflicted 
souls  had  not  yet  outgrown.  For  in  the  Marchesa's 
complex  brain  there  was  a  cell  for  the  sense  of 
beauty  in  flowers,  trees,  and  gardens.  Many  ex- 
ceeding fine  nerves  of  thought  led  to  this  cell, 
and  one  that  was  large  and  paralysed,  the  nerve  of 
language. 

"Here  are  the  geese,"  said  she  with  her  usual 
gentle  calm,  as  they  approached  that  yellowish, 
microbe-breeding,  restless  pond,  that  gloried 
boldly  in  the  title  of  lake. 

"Here  are  the  geese.  They  are  all  ducks." 
Then  Don  Giuseppe  explained  to  her  patiently 
that  the  geese  were  not  ducks,  and  that  his  palmi- 
peds represented  two  different  tribes. 

At  that  moment  a  feeble  ray  of  sun  illumined 
the  pastoral  scene,  the  restless  waters,  the  group 
of  tremulous  poplars  rising  beside  them,  and  the 
green  and  oval  expanse  of  pasture,  flanked  on  one 
side  by  the  sloping  wooded  hill  on  the  other  by  a 
high  wall  of  verdure,  both  meeting  at  last  against 
a  dark  background  of  fir-trees.  That  large,  par- 
alysed nerve  of  the  Marchesa's  contracted  slightly. 
"Beautiful,"  said  she.  "That  what's-its-name, 
that  pasture  is  beautiful,  Don  Giuseppe!" 


The  Commcndatore's  Coffee      211 

Don  Giuseppe  did  not  answer.  He  was  lost  in 
contemplation.  That  spot  in  the  garden  was  his 
favourite.  Once  he  had  dreamed  of  the  games 
and  merry  laughter  of  children  playing  in  that 
pasture,  children  of  his  own  blood,  two  generations 
of  nephews  and  nieces.  Now,  as  he  watched 
delightedly,  with  his  never-failing  freshness  of 
spirit,  the  capricious  love-making  of  light  and 
green,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  his  will  which  he 
had  made  some  months  before,  after  much  hesita- 
tion and  meditation.  The  villa  and  farm  would 
become  the  residence  and  property  of  six  elderly 
parish-priests  of  the  diocese,  and  of  six  elderly 
district-physicians  of  the  province,  all  equally 
feeble  and  impecunious,  and  he  pictured  to  him- 
self these  miserable  heirs  of  his  loitering  in  the 
field. 

The  Marchesa  added  that  should  Elisa  ever 
leave  the  asylum,  such  an  abode  as  this  would  be 
perfect  for  her.  Don  Giuseppe  immediately  took 
fire,  and  offered  her  the  villa  and  garden  so 
warmly  that  the  Marchesa,  smiling  amidst  her 
tears,  seized  his  wrist  and  held  it  a  long  time, 
pressing  it  in  silence,  and  giving  him  thus  to 
understand  that  she  was  deeply  grateful,  and  at 
the  same  time,  that  they  must  not  be  too  sanguine. 
Don  Giuseppe,  moved  by  her  emotion,  did  not 
know  what  to  say  in  his  confusion.  She  was 
strong,  so  strong  that  many  believed  her  to  be  un- 
feeling, but  now  that  she  had  opened  her  heart 
to  Don  Giuseppe  as  she  had  never  done  to  any  one 


212  The    Sinner 

before,  her  strength,  which  rested  mainly  upon  her 
silence,  had  failed  her.  She  saw  some  benches 
among  the  poplar-trees. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,"  said  she  hoarsely.  "  It 
is  lovely  here.'' 

And  she  sat  down.  Don  Giuseppe  seated  him- 
self beside  her,  and  his  bewilderment  and  anxiety, 
his  fears  of  worse,  must  have  been  so  apparent 
that  presently  the  Marchesa  said  to  him  with  an 
effort:  "It  is  nothing,  Don  Giuseppe,  nothing!" 

Little  by  little  the  innocent  peace  of  the  green 
and  of  the  lonely  waters,  and  the  gentle  murmur- 
ings  of  the  trees,  soothed  the  sorrowing  woman,  as 
in  a  house  which  has  been  visited  by  affliction, 
bitter  tears  are  sometimes  gradually  hushed  by 
the  unconscious  gaiety  of  little  children. 

"There,"  said  she,  drying  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief.  "  I  was  thinking." 

She  meant  that  she  had  been  affected  by  the 
thought  of  Elisa  in  that  garden.  Don  Giuseppe 
did  not  understand,  nor  did  he  seek  to  do  so.  He 
entreated  her,  somewhat  irrelevantly  indeed,  to 
be  careful  of  her  own  health.  "I  am  so  strong!" 
she  answered,  and  added  with  unwonted  en- 
ergy, that  she  did  not  wish  to  die,  indeed  she 
did  not. 

Oh,  poor  sorrowful  soul!  How  happy  she  would 
have  been  to  rest  in  death,  for  she  believed  firmly 
in  God.  But  what  if  her  darling  should  come 
forth  ?  Who  would  protect  her,  who  would  defend 
her  against  that  woman  ?  What  could  Zaneto  do  ? 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee       213 

Only  her  mother  could  care  for  her,  and  her  mother 
must  and  would  live! 

Later,  when  the  Marchesa  asked  Don  Giuseppe's 
farmer  if  he  had  "told  Giacomo,"  he  simply  stam- 
mered some  incomprehensible  words,  and  when 
his  master  urged  him  to  explain  himself,  answered 
in  an  undertone,  and  with  a  look  of  amazement, 
addressing  Don  Giuseppe  instead  of  the  Marchesa : 
" Signor,  he  says  he  is  dead!"  In  fact,  when  the 
saucy  coachman  had  heard  the  call:  "Oh,  Gia- 
como!" he  had  called  back:  "He  is  dead!" 
The  Marchesa  understood  and  shook  her  head, 
smiling  with  kindly  tolerance  at  her  coachman's 
ready  wit. 

Before  entering  the  carriage  she  begged  Don 
Giuseppe  to  remember  her  daughter  in  his 
prayers. 

"  You  may  believe  me,  Don  Giuseppe,  Piero 
never  understood  her." 

Only  she  herself  had  understood  her,  only  she 
knew  the  treasures  of  that  soul. 

When  he  was  alone,  the  old  priest  recalled  what 
a  friend  of  his,  a  poet,  had  one  day  said  to  him 
m  speaking  of  Marchesa  Nene.  He  had  com- 
pared her  to  a  little  packet  of  gems  such  as 
jewellers  keep,  a  little  cluster  of  tiny  precious 
stones  enveloped  in  a  leaf  torn  at  random  from 
an  old  copy-book,  and  covered  with  crooked, 
childish  scrawlings,  devoid  of  sense.  He  had  also 
compared  her  to  certain  admirably  planned 


214  The  Sinner 

subterranean  caverns,  arranged  for  some  hidden 
and  beneficent  purpose  beneath  the  disorder  of 
an  ancient  and  half -abandoned  civilization. 

But  as  soon  as  he  no  longer  heard  the  noise  of 
the  wheels  that  were  carrying  away  that  revered 
psychological  problem,  he  forgot  these  poetic 
similitudes,  and  thoughtfully  re-entered  his  house 
bending  beneath  the  weight  of  his  difficult 
mission. 

Ten  minutes  after  his  return  from  Rome  the 
most  excellent  Commendatore  seated  himself, 
fresh  and  calm,  before  an  enormous  heap  of  letters 
and  papers,  and  summoning  the  parlour-maid, 
requested  her  to  bring  him  a  cup  of  strong  coffee. 
At  the  same  moment  the  man-cook  came  in  to 
announce  Signor  Soldini. 

"  Bring  two  cups  then,"  said  the  Commendatore 
to  the  girl. 

Returning  presently  with  the  coffee,  and  open- 
ing the  door  behind  Signor  Soldini,  she  saw  that 
his  wife  was  with  him,  so  she  silently  withdrew  to 
the  kitchen  once  more  to  consult  her  colleague  the 
cook.  Should  she  go  back  to  her  master  with 
three  cups  of  coffee?  "For  those  smug-faced 
hypocrites?"  replied  the  cook  who  was  a  Radical. 
"No,  no!  Let  them  go  without." 

Soldini  had  indeed  brought  his  wife,  and  was  full 
of  apologies  for  this  unexpected  complication  of 
the  interview.  As  there  existed  some  difference 
of  opinion  between  his  wife  and  himself  concern- 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      215 

ing  the  matter  to  be  discussed,  and  as  the  lady 
was  convinced  the  Commendatore  had  it  in  his 
power  to  remove  every  reason  for  disagreement, 
and  as  both  had  the  most  perfect  confidence  in  the 
rectitude  of  his  moral  and  religious  conscience,  the 
husband  had  said  to  his  wife:  "You  had  better 
accompany  me.  We  will  consult  him  together." 
While  Solrlini  was  explaining  this  to  the  Com- 
mendatore in  his  choice  and  clear  language,  calling 
him,  half  seriously,  half  jestingly,  his  political 
opponent,  the  lady,  blushing  and  smiling  and 
evidently  much  embarrassed,  was  herself  apologis- 
ing for  her  supposed  boldness,  exclaiming:  "  What 
must  you  think  of  me?  What  must  you  think?" 
and  the  Commendatore,  while  he  hastened  to 
assure  her  that  he  was  "quite  delighted,  quite 
delighted!"  was  eagerly  and  with  some  misgiv- 
ings reviewing  in  his  mind  all  the  different  sub- 
jects, the  simple  and  the  complex,  the  peaceful 
and  the  insecure,  which  might  possibly  be  coming 
under  discussion. 

Well,  to  begin  with,  it  was  not  really  a  question 
of  politics.  Hereupon  the  Commendatore,  whose 
experience  of  both  men  and  things  was  vast, 
although  he  did  not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  his 
interlocutors,  immediately  concluded  that  politics 
would  play  an  important  part  in  the  coming  con- 
versation. The  fact  was  Soldini's  political  friends 
thought  they  had  reason  to  believe  that  their 
adversaries  were  working  to  bring  about  the 
dissolution  of  the  Town  Council,  and  preparing 


216  The   Sinner 

Maironi's  nomination  as  Liberal  candidate,  mak- 
ing use  of  the  deputy-councillor  Bassanelli,  who 
had  for  some  days  been  at  the  head  of  affairs  at  the 
Prefecture.  He  had  been  a  companion-in-arms 
of  Maironi's  father  in  1859.  Should  the  Liberals 
succeed,  the  clerical  newspaper,  in  compliance  with 
the  wishes  of  certain  leaders  of  the  party,  would 
declare  war  to  the  knife  against  Maironi. 

"You  must  not  do  that!"  the  lady  exclaimed. 

"  That  is  the  point,"  her  husband  replied,  smil- 
ing. And  he  went  on  to  prove  that  in  such  a  case 
as  this  war  to  the  knife  would  be  justified. 

Then  he  explained  to  the  Commendatore  that 
while  the  other  ladies  of  the  party  were  furious 
with  Maironi,  and  would  like  to  see  him  torn  in 
quarters,  his  wife  thought  only  of  the  salvation 
of  his  soul,  and  trembled  lest  he  rush  headlong 
into  error  and  evil.  She  feared,  moreover,  that 
a  part  of  the  responsibility  would  rest  upon 
Soldini's  own  shoulders,  perhaps  the  greater  part, 
because  Soldini  would  never  stoop  to  violent 
invective,  but,  with  his  cold  and  measured  urban- 
ity, was  capable  of  inflicting  far  deeper  wounds. 
"  My  wife,"  said  he  laughing,  "  does  me  the  honour 
to  believe  this."  But  he  added  that  he  thought 
she  was  mistaken.  "  Desertion  to  the  enemy  is 
always  a  morally  guilty  action,  and  an  act  of 
public  immorality  should  be  publicly  and  most 
severely  censured  in  the  manner  which  time  and 
place  prescribe.  This  you  will  certainly  grant. 
Pray  have  patience  with  me!  Whenever  the 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      217 

Liberals  are  in  conflict  with  us,  they  are  very 
fond  of  quoting  largely  from  the  Gospels.  I  don't 
mean  you — you  have  never  done  this;  but  as  to 
the  others  I  fancy  they  know  about  as  much  of 
the  Gospels  as  I  do  of  astronomy;  they  are  ac- 
quainted with  four  or  five  well-known  episodes, 
the  rating  of  the  Pharisees,  the  pardoning  of  the 
woman  taken  in  adultery,  and,  best  of  all,  the 
famous  words :  regnum  meum  non  est  de  hoc  mundo. 
Now  there  are  passages  in  the  Gospels  in  which 
Christ  used  invectives,  and  this  without  the 
slightest  weak  hesitancy,  and  precisely  against 
such  culprits  as  aroused  his  indignation  by  the 
cowardly  nature  of  their  crimes;  but  .  .  .  pray 
understand  me  well,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
accused  of  having  lacked  Christian  charity  in  my 
handling  of  Maironi!  .  .  .  this  was  not  so  in  the 
case  of  Judas.  The  Pharisees  had  much  good  in 
them,  they  might  still  be  saved,  and  so  Christ 
hurled  his  invectives  against  them.  But  he  did 
not  do  so  with  Judas;  there  was  no  help  for  him, 
for  Satan  had  entered  into  Judas." 

"There,  there,  there!"  the  Commendatore  ex- 
claimed, showing  plainly  enough  that  he  had  little 
relish  for  this  subtle  reasoning.  "  There  would  be 
much  to  say  in  confutation  of  many  of  the  remarks 
you  have  made;  much  to  say,  for  instance,  con- 
cerning the  cowardliness  of  certain  desertions, 
and  concerning  your  comparison  between  the 
invectives  of  the  Gospels  and  the  invectives  of 
modern  journalism."  Here  the  Commendatore 


2i8  The   Sinner 

began  to  chuckle  inwardly.  "  If  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, "feel  inclined  to  act  the  part  of  Christ, 
you  are  perfectly  free  to  do  so,  but  will  you  kindly 
explain  what  I  have  to  do  with  Satan?"  And  he 
laughed  boisterously. 

"Has  he  never  knocked  at  your  door?"  said 
Signora  Soldini,  laughing  also.  "  Has  he  never 
begged  for  your  support  in  obtaining  the  order  of 
St.  Maurice  and  St.  Lazarus?  Or  did  he  perhaps 
want  a  position  in  the  Department  of  Public 
Instruction? — Now  I  may  speak,  may  I  not? 
You  see  certain  of  my  husband's  friends — most 
worthy  souls,  but  very  ignorant  of  the  ways  of 
the  world — have  mismanaged  this  Maironi  affair 
from  the  very  beginning.  And  they  have  mis- 
managed it  because  they  would  not  listen  to  my 
husband." 

Soldini  interrupted  her.  "What  can  one  ex- 
pect, when  my  own  wife  does  not  always  listen  to 
me?" 

"Let  us  speak  with  that  frankness  which  our 
grey  hairs  sanction.  The  first  outcry  about  this 
unfortunate  infatuation  of  his,  was  made  by  the 
Liberals,  as  was  perfectly  natural,  he  being  a 
Clerical.  I  am  convinced  that  the  outcry  was  far 
greater  than  the  evil,  and  that  all  the  rest  of  the 
trouble  might  have  been  avoided  had  prudence 
and  charity  been  used  towards  a  man  who  was 
sorely  tempted — we  must  admit  that — towards 
a  young  man  in  his  painful  position.  But  instead 
of  that  his  friends  imprudently  began  to  deny 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      219 

everything,  and  this  almost  solemnly,  and  then  a 
reaction  of  still  more  imprudent  ferocity  set  in 
among  them,  and  you  have  just  heard  what  their 
present  intentions  are.  They  may  have  a  right  to 
act  thus,  but  this  is  the  way  to  lose  souls  and  not 
the  way  to  win  them  back  again.  You  are  surely 
saying  to  yourself:  Why  does  this  woman  grow 
so  warm?  I  feel  keenly  about  this  because 
formerly  Maironi  sometimes  came  to  our  house, 
and  I  took  it  into  my  head  that  that  young  man 
would  one  day  amount  to  something,  although  I 
saw  well  enough  that  he  was  rather  excessive, 
rather  what  is  now  termed  impulsive.  Ah,  Com- 
mendatore,"  she  concluded,  "you  alone  can  re- 
concile us!" 

"I?" 

This  the  Commendatore  had  really  not  ex- 
pected. 

"  Most  assuredly,"  said  Soldini,  and  he  began  to 
explain  the  riddle.  It  was  well  known  the  disso- 
lution of  the  Town  Council  was  on  the  programme 
at  the  Prefecture.  There  were  those  indeed  who 
declared  that  Bassanelli  had  attempted  to  hasten 
the  advent  of  the  royal  decree.  Now  in  case  the 
royal  decree  should  arrive,  the  Commendatore 
must  persuade  Maironi  to  decline  the  candidacy. 
"My  wife  reasons  thus,"  Cavaliere  Soldini  con- 
cluded. "  If  Maironi  does  not  accept  the  Liberal 
candidacy  the  Clerical  paper  will  keep  quiet. 
The  Commendatore  must  in  some  way  find  a 
means  of  preventing  this  candidacy,  either 


220  The    Sinner 

bringing  pressure  to  bear  upon  Maironi  himself,  or 
upon  the  Liberal  party." 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!  You  are  treating  me  like  a 
Venetian  gondolier!"  said  the  Commendatore, 
laughing  as  he  buried  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  brought  out  with  a  certain  emphasis,  the 
jesting  words:  " Scia  premi!  scia  premi!  Press 
forward  man,  press  forward!  But  I  should  much 
prefer  to  stalir,  to  stay  where  I  am!"  And  he 
gave  one  of  his  little  laughs.  Then,  becoming 
serious,  he  added  that  he  had  never  taken  any  part 
in  elections,  and  that  he  did  not  intend  to  begin 
now. 

"You  must  be  patient  a  little  longer,"  the 
Cavaliere  answered.  "That  is  the  way  my  wife 
reasons.  I  must  frankly  admit  that  I  myself  hold 
other  views.  Allow  me  to  explain.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  Maironi  would  listen  to  you,  nor  do  I 
believe  that  he  would  accept  a  Liberal  candidac}r. 
There  is  something  I  have  never  mentioned  even 
to  my  wife,  but  which  I  will  now  tell  you.  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  Maironi  is  about  to  enter  that 
strange  category  of  rich  Socialists  which  exists 
in  Italy.  Pray  do  not  mistake  my  meaning.  He 
will  go  among  the  honest  men,  not  among  those 
who  become  Socialists  to  escape  ruin :  that  is  what 
I  mean.  Maironi  is  precisely,  an  impulsive,  but 
perfectly  honest  fellow.  I  have  been  led  to  form 
this  opinion  by  various  little  incidents,  various 
trivial  incidents,  which  have  come  to  my  know- 
ledge, and  judging  also  from  something  he  must 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      221 

have  said  to  Bassanelli,  who  is  not  on  very  cordial 
terms  with  him,  for  certain  reasons  of  a  delicate 
nature  .  .  . 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,  nothing  at  all!" 
the  Commendatore  hastened  to  say,  and  his  tone 
implied  that  he  did  not  desire  to  be  enlightened. 
"But  I  do!"  the  other  replied.  "If  the  elections 
should  take  place  and  Maironi  should  allow  the 
Socialists  to  nominate  him  candidate,  just  fancy 
what  an  amount  of  polite  abuse,  I  should  be 
obliged  to  heap  upon  him!  Now  you  see,  Com- 
mendatore, how  I  look  upon  the  matter,  and  how 
you  can  not  only  prevent  the  disagreement  be- 
tween my  wife  and  myself  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken,  but  perhaps  save  a  soul  as  well,  and  most 
certainly  insure  our  domestic  peace." 

Cavaliere  Soldini  laughed  as  he  pronounced 
these  words,  and  the  Commendatore  laughed  also 
and  answered,  "No,  no,  no!  I  do  not  see,  I  do 
not  see,  indeed  I  do  not!"  in  a  tone  implying 
that  he  saw  only  too  well. 

"  I  made  a  great  mistake  just  now,"  said  Soldini. 
"  The  dissolution  of  the  Town  Council  is  not  on  the 
programme  at  the  Prefecture.  It  is  in  plain  sight 
on  a  programme  much  nearer  at  hand." 

"Oh,  what  leaps!"  cried  the  Commendatore, 
still  laughing.  "  Oh,  what  leaps !  A  few  moments 
ago  you  made  me  a  Venetian  gondolier,  and  now 
you  make  me  Minister  of  the  Interior!  Oh,  what 
leaps!"  And  neither  Cavaliere  Soldini  with  all 
his  skill,  nor  Signora  Soldini  with  all  her  honest 


222  The  Sinner 

enthusiasm  could  get  anything  more  out  of  the 
Commend atore,  who  continued  to  repeat  his  ex- 
clamation: "Oh,  what  leaps!  Oh,  what  leaps!" 
Notwithstanding  his  lively  manner  he  had  been 
most  carefully  on  his  guard  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, for  he  had  a  suspicion  that  his  visitors  were 
acting  a  pre-arranged  comedy  in  order  to  further 
the  purpose  of  the  Clerical  party,  and  prevent  the 
dissolution  of  the  Town  Council.  This  suspicion 
was  unjust  as  far,  at  least,  as  the  lady  was  con- 
cerned, but  it  did  not  prevent  his  conducting  his 
visitors  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  with  the  greatest 
ceremony. 

Maironi  was  already  waiting  in  the  ante-room, 
and  Rosina,  in  consideration  of  the  fact  that  her 
ferocious  colleague  in  the  kitchen  had  no  personal 
objection  to  him,  had  made  arrangements  to  carry 
the  two  cups  of  coffee  to  that  poor,  patient  Job, 
her  master,  as  soon  as  the  Soldinis  should  have 
taken  their  departure.  Upon  hearing  them  go 
down-stairs  she  herself  started  downwards  from  the 
third  floor.  Hardly  had  she  reached  the  second 
landing  when  she  met  a  friend  and  relative  of  the 
family,  who  stretched  out  eager  hands  towards 
the  tray,  while  his  face  shone  with  pleasure. 

"Good  girl!"  said  he.  "That  is  just  what  I 
need  after  my  hearty  dinner!" 

Rosina  defended  the  coffee  bravely,  but  her 
opponent  attacked  her  ever  more  vigorously. 

"No,  no!     It  is  for  Signer  Maironi!"  she  cried. 

"You  can  heat  another  cup!" 


The  Commendatore' s  Coffee      223 

:But  there  is  no  more  ready!" 

"You  can  make  it  fresh  then!"  And  the  friend 
tossed  off  his  cup  of  hot  coffee  with  many  grunts 
and  sighs  of  satisfaction,  leaving  Rosina  to  return, 
grumbling,  to  the  kitchen. 

Maironi,  while  mayor  of  the  town,  had  several 
times  called  upon  the  Commendatore,  either  to 
consult  him  concerning  the  administration,  or  to 
ask  for  his  support  in  certain  matters  of  public 
interest.  He  had  always  been  received  most 
cordially.  This  time,  however,  he  had  come  un- 
willingly, suspecting  that  the  Commendatore 
wished  to  talk  to  him  about  politics.  He  was  well 
aware  that  the  Liberals  hoped  to  profit  by  his 
defection  from  his  old  friends,  and  it  would  have 
been  painful  to  him  to  be  forced  to  withstand  an 
attack  led  by  this  good  man  whom  he  respected, 
and  whom  he  would  not  feel  at  liberty  to  answer 
as  severely  as  another.  He  shrank  from  yielding, 
not  only  on  account  of  the  attraction  which  the 
Socialistic  idea  had  for  him,  but  still  more  because 
the  Liberal  group  appeared  to  lack  energy,  and 
their  programme  seemed  but  ill-calculated  to 
generate  that  strenuous  activity  of  which  he  felt 
an  ever  increasing  need,  in  the  consuming  unrest 
of  his  soul,  tormented  by  a  sense  of  the  deepest 
dissatisfaction  with  itself,  and  by  the  impotence 
of  love  to  give  it  peace. 

The  Commendatore,  ignoring  the  gentle  clamour 
of  his  nerves  for  the  coffee  that  was  denied  them 
even  after  so  much  faithful  service,  received  the 


224  The    Sinner 

new-comer  with  manifest  pleasure.  He  went  to 
meet  him  in  the  ante-room,  and  before  offering 
him  a  seat  beside  him,  showed  him  some  books 
he  had  recently  received,  among  them  a  treatise 
on  trigonometry. 

"Look  at  this!  Look  at  this!"  he  cried.  "You 
were  not  aware  I  am  a  geometrician! "  There  was 
also  Le  Socialism  Integral.  "  You  are  acquainted 
with  that  work  ?  Dreams,  all  sentimental  dreams ! " 

Maironi  had  indeed  read  the  book.  Already  in 
his  previous  state  of  mind  he  had  been  curious 
concerning  Socialism,  and  had  read  a  French 
synopsis  of  Capitate  by  Marx,  Progress  and  Poverty 
by  George,  and  Benoit  Malon's  book. 

"They  may  be  dreams,"  he  said  warmly,  "but 
you  must  admit  that  there  have  been  dreams 
which  have  revealed  the  future." 

"Pray  be  seated!  Pray  be  seated!"  said  the 
Commendatore,  hastily  withdrawing  the  hand  he 
had  stretched  out  to  test  the  heat  of  that  blood 
which  he  found  was  boiling. 

He  immediately  introduced  the  subjects  which 
he  had  wished  to  discuss  with  Piero  when  he  had 
requested  him  to  call  upon  him.  In  the  first 
place  certain  historical  studies  he  was  pursuing 
called  for  copies  of  some  documents  in  the  archives 
of  the  city  of  Brescia.  He  had  thought  of  ap- 
pealing to  Maironi's  kindness  to  procure  them 
for  him.  He  supposed  Maironi  often  went  to 
Brescia ;  did  not  he  own  some  large  estates  in  that 
province  ?  He  laid  stress  upon  the  ' '  large  estates, ' ' 


and  then  touched  upon  the  disadvantages  of  city 
life,  upon  the  happy  lot  of  those  who  live  upon 
their  own  lands,  managing  them  themselves,  with 
plenty  of  leisure  for  study  and  perhaps  even  for  a 
few  dreams.  And  here  he  purposely  laughed  one 
of  his  discreet  laughs.  These  words  which  were 
carefully  planned  to  convey  a  deeper  meaning, 
which  said  much  and  still  said  nothing,  helped 
him  to  pass  on  to  the  more  delicate  subject,  which 
he  now  most  cautiously  introduced. 

The  delicate  subject  had  reference  to  Zaneto's 
senatorial  ambitions.  The  Commend atore  began 
by  speaking  of  Brescia,  he  touched  upon  the  po- 
litical conditions  of  the  town  and  province,  and 
upon  the  importance  which  the  Minister  very 
properly  attributed  to  the  election  of  a  deputy, 
which  would  soon  take  place  there.  Like  a 
cautious  hawk  he  circled  broadly  and  slowly  down- 
wards, hardly  touching,  as  he  brushed  lightly  past 
it,  a  certain  message  which  a  member  of  Par- 
liament had  brought,  in  regard  to  the  conditions 
it  was  supposed  had  been  made  concerning 
Zaneto's  nomination;  which  conditions  had  been 
whispered  in  the  honourable  gentleman's  ear  by 
one  of  the  Ministers,  and  foremost  among  which 
was  Maironi's  support  of  the  ministerial  candi- 
date in  a  certain  borough  in  the  province  of  Brescia. 
The  prudent  Commendatore's  circumlocutions  an- 
noyed Maironi,  who  knew  full  well  that  his  only 
reason  for  using  this  involved  language  was  his 
fear  of  mentioning  Jeanne,  of  even  alluding  to 
15 


226  The    Sinner 

Jeanne,  to  whom  the  Hon.  Berardini  had  com- 
municated the  news.  This  prudence,  which  was 
almost  an  offence  both  to  Jeanne  and  to  himself, 
exasperated  him,  and  without  waiting  to  hear 
more,  he  declared  warmly  that  the  thing  was 
impossible,  that  he  must  decline  to  bind  himself 
either  to  support  or  oppose  any  one.  "  Have  pa- 
tience with  me!"  said  the  Commendatore,  who  was 
more  anxious  to  deliver  the  whole  of  his  well- 
pondered  discourse  to  his  own  satisfaction,  than  to 
persuade  Piero  to  decide  one  way  or  the  other. 
And  he  did  deliver  his  speech,  going  into  lengthy  and 
minute  particulars,  and  not  without  several  repeti- 
tions for  the  sake  of  clearness.  Thus  Piero  was  given 
to  understand  that  as  to  the  final  result,  some  were 
perhaps  over-sanguine,  that  not  even  the  Minister 
in  question  was  in  a  position  to  promise  success, 
but  that  it  could  not  be  denied  there  was  a  prob- 
ability, a  probability — the  Commendatore  laid 
stress  upon  the  word — and  the  election  at  Brescia 
would  doubtless  weigh  very  heavy  in  the  balance. 

"There!"  said  he  at  last,  smiling  and  satisfied, 
and  glad  to  have  relieved  himself  of  this  tangle  of 
arguments,  and  of  all  fear  of  ill-timed  silence. 
"And  I  hope  I  do  not  deserve  the  epigram  of  a 
very  dear  friend  of  mine,  who  was  a  great  wag, 
a  great  wag:  longus  esse  labor  at,  obscurus  fit!" 

Maironi  now  renewed  his  protests  still  more 
vigorously,  but  this  time  they  were  received 
calmly,  with  exclamations  of:  "Do  just  as  you 
please!  Just  as  you  please!  I  cannot  advise 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      227 

you!"  The  Commendatore  was  indeed  so  calm 
that  Maironi  felt  he  was  unpleasantly  indifferent 
and  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  startle  the  man  by 
some  bold  words. 

"It  is  not  on  account  of  the  Brescia  affair," 
said  he,  "but  because  I  hold  entirely  different 
opinions." 

"Well,  well,  well!"  said  the  Commendatore, 
while  his  face  said:  "Bad,  bad,  bad!"  like  that 
Venetian  priest  who  was  in  the  habit  of  saying: 
"Well,  well!"  to  each  fresh  sin  his  penitent 
confessed. 

"Listen,"  said  he  presently,  and  very  solemnly, 
as  if  speaking  with  conviction  after  brief  medita- 
tion. "  Don't  bind  yourself  too  soon  in  con- 
sequence of  these  opinions  of  which  you  speak. 
Vita  doctrix!  Be  more  assiduous  in  your  attendance 
at  life's  school,  and  go  as  a  pupil  who  keeps  his 
seat  upon  the  bench,  listening  and  watching. 
Then  perhaps  later  .  .  .  perhaps  later  .  .  .  ." 

The  Commendatore  held  his  right  hand  aloft  and 
shook  it  as  if  imparting  a  benediction  to  the  ceiling, 
this  signifying  that  perhaps  later  he  might  assume 
the  teacher's  chair. 

Rosina's  nose  appeared  at  the  door.  "Signor, 
the  Prefect  is  waiting." 

Maironi  rose,  promised  to  procure  the  docu- 
ments the  Commendatore  desired,  and  withdrew, 
glad  to  have  been  able  to  express  his  opinions 
thus  openly  to  one  of  such  keen  insight.  In  the 
ante-room  he  met  the  limping  Bassanelli,  the 


228  The    Sinner 

Deputy  Councillor,  who,  since  the  transfer  of  the 
Prefect  had  managed  the  affairs  of  the  Prefecture. 
The  two  men  bowed  coldly. 

"Shall  I  carry  the  coffee  to  that  lame  man?" 
thought  Rosina,  who  had  repaired  the  damage 
done  by  the  free  consumer.  But  her  master  rang 
the  bell  and  gave  orders  to  admit  no  one  else,  and 
Rosina  did  not  venture  to  do  more  than  listen  a 
few  moments  at  the  door.  She  heard  Bassanelli 
say  in  a  loud  voice,  "  My  dear  Commendatore,  we 
are  limping  badly!"  at  which  her  master  laughed, 
but  she  could  hear  nothing  more,  and  so  took 
herself  off,  grumbling  because  the  Government 
would  appoint  Prefects  like  this  one,  who  had  no 
self-respect  or  dignity. 

Cavaliere  Bassanelli's  face,  hair  and  left  leg — 
the  Palestro  leg — had  undergone  many  changes 
since  that  night  in  1859  when  he  had  sat  drinking 
merrily  with  the  Seven  Wise  Men  at  Isola  Bella 
whither  one  of  their  number,  Franco  Maironi,  had 
come  to  embrace  his  wife  before  enlisting  and  going 
to  the  front.  In  spirit  he  was  still  as  good-natured, 
rough,  and  eccentric  as  in  those  days,  but  his 
superior  culture,  the  office  he  filled,  and  inter- 
course with  refined  and  gentle  people,  had  greatly 
modified  his  language,  without,  however,  robbing 
it  entirely  of  its  picturesque  boldness.  Sceptical 
to  the  heart's  core,  thoroughly  imbued  with  a  sense 
of  what  is  positive  and  practical,  hating  Radicals 
more  fiercely  than  most,  and  priests  more  fiercely 
than  any,  making  love  to  women  while  he  despised 


The  Co  mm  en  da  tore's  Coffee      229 

them,  this  Paduan  concealed  his  real  sentiments 
in  so  far  as  the  dignity  of  his  office  demanded,  and 
no  farther.  He  held  the  Commendatore  in  the 
highest  esteem,  but  personally  he  had  little  liking 
for  him,  considering  him  too  religious,  too  fond  of 
priests,  too  adverse  to  frank  judgments  over- 
cautious in  speech,  and  unwilling  to  call  things 
by  their  right  names.  He  was  none  too  well 
pleased  to  have  him  at  the  Prefecture,  although 
he  was  well  aware  of  his  gentleness,  and  found  it 
far  more  difficult  and  dangerous  to  steer  his 
course  among  the  deputies  than  to  come  to  terms 
with  this  man.  to  whom  the  Government  always 
confided  the  Prefecture  when  delicate  matters 
were  to  be  handled.  In  the  present  instance  the 
delicate  matter  was  the  dissolution  of  the  Town 
Council,  for  which  the  Liberals  were  clamouring 
and  which  was  indeed  justified  by  the  composition 
of  the  Council  itself,  in  which  the  Clerical  majority, 
prevailing  only  by  a  few  votes,  appeared  quite 
incapable  of  finding  a  mayor.  Bassanelli's  desire 
to  upset  the  Clericals  was  restrained  only  by  the 
fear  of  a  coalition  of  the  constitutional  and  ex- 
treme parties  at  the  next  general  elections.  He 
was  therefore  most  anxious  that,  in  the  event  of 
communal  elections,  the  management  of  the 
campaign  should  be  in  skilful  hands.  And  here 
the  matter  had  been  crippled  by  the  initiative 
taken  by  certain  individuals,  ambitious  but  devoid 
of  authority,  and  who  drove  Bassanelli  nearly 
mad.  "  If  I  may  not  set  their  heads  straight  it 


230  The    Sinner 

would  at  least  be  a  comfort  to  twist  their  necks 
for  them!"  said  he.  "Listen,  Commendatore ! " 
and  the  fierce  Paduan  spirit  was  alive  within  him. 
"Yesterday  an  imbecile  belonging  to  the  Mod- 
erate party  said  to  me : '  if  we  must  choose  between 
petroleum  and  candles,  we  had  better  take 
candles  ! ' 1  Well  I  am  not  only  anti-Clerical, 
but  neither  do  I,  unfortunately,  possess  your 
faith.  This  beastly  world  appears  so  boundless 
that  I  can't  understand  how  there  can  possibly 
be  another.  I  don't  feel  the  slightest  need  of 
priests  to  help  me  live  an  honest  life,  but,  by 
G—  — !  rather  than  see  certain  Liberals  at  the  Town 
Hall  I  should  almost  prefer  to  keep  this  miserable 
collection  of  snuffy,  half -idiotic  pew-openers!" 

While  this  erratic  speech  was  in  course  of  de- 
livery, the  poor  Commendatore's  brow  had  be- 
come heavily  clouded.  "  Now  let  us  come  to  a 
decision,"  said  he  gravely,  and  without  looking 
at  Bassanelli.  And  he  went  on  to  advise  him 
to  make  no  fresh  proposals  to  Government,  but 
to  await  coming  events.  He  informed  him  that 
the  deputy  of  the  borough  was  working  hard  at 
Rome  to  bring  about  the  dissolution,  and  that 
it  was  quite  possible  that  a  more  or  less  explicit 
order  to  propose  this  might  arrive  unexpectedly 
from  the  capital.  When  he  rose  to  take  leave 
of  the  Commendatore,  Bassanelli  apologised  for 
having  scandalised  him  by  his  atheism,  and 

1  Petroleum  means  the  revolutionary  parties,  candles,  the 
Clerical  Party. — Translator's  note. 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      231 

alluded  to  Franco  Maironi,  the  ex-mayor's  father, 
who,  he  said,  used  to  scold  him  for  this  and  for 
"certain  other  slight  matters,"  but  who  had, 
nevertheless,  been  very  fond  of  him.  "  And  when 
he  scolded,"  Bassanelli  added,  "he  seemed  half- 
fiend  and  half-saint." 

"Bravo!  That  reminds  me!  What  can  you 
tell  me  about  the  ex-mayor?"  said  the  Commen- 
datore,  scrutinising  the  other's  face,  and  not 
without  a  certain  curiosity  concerning  the  secret 
to  which  Soldini  had  alluded.  Bassanelli  grew 
as  red  as  a  lobster,  and  burst  out  with:  "Don't 
speak  of  him!  Don't  speak  of  him!  He  is  a 
madman !  He  is  not  worthy  .... 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!  There,  there!"  cried  the  Com- 
mendatore,  interrupting  him. 

"He  is  not  worthy  of  his  father,  I  tell  you!  I 
have  already  said  something  of  the  sort  to  him 
and  if  I  get  the  chance  I  shall  repeat  it  to  him 
again  still  more  emphatically!  I  hope  he  won't 
turn  back,  at  least!" 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  Return  to  the  Clericals  ? ' ' 
And  the  kind  Commendatore  laughed,  hoping  a 
little  hilarity  might  cool  this  rage  somewhat. 

"Return  to  the  Clericals?  Nonsense!  He  is 
going  straight  to  the  Socialists!  I  tell  you  he  is 
a  madman!  A  few  days  ago  he  talked  to  me 
exactly  like  a  lunatic  about  these  very  communal 
elections,  and  trotted  out  the  most  incomprehen- 
sible theories.  Try  to  stir  the  white  of  an  egg  into 
your  soup  with  a  spoon — it  is  precisely  the  same 


232  The   Sinner 

thing!  The  Clerical  was  simply  the  chrysalis  of 
the  anarchist — take  my  word  for  it!  And  he  will 
injure  us!  He  will  use  his  name,  his  money,  and 
a  certain  genius  of  which  he  is  undeniably  pos- 
sessed, to  injure  us." 

The  Commendatore  seized  this  favourable  mo- 
ment. "Let  us  send  him  away!"  said  he. 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  would  send  him  to  the  Antarctic 
Pole  by  the  five  o'clock  express,  if  I  could!  But 
how  is  it  to  be  done?" 

It  was  rumoured  in  the  city  that  in  spite  of  his 
fifty-four  years,  his  cynicism,  his  repeated  de- 
clarations that  he  cared  for  no  women  save  the 
"little,  white,  soft  geese"  among  them,  Bassanelli 
was  in  love  with  Jeanne  Dessalle,  whom  he  had 
known  as  a  girl,  and  now  frequently  visited  at 
Villa  Diedo.  Neither  Bassanelli  nor  the  Com- 
mendatore was  aware  of  this  rumour. 

"What  if  ...  if  ...  if  ..."  the  latter 
gentleman  began,  but  ran  ashore  at  the  third  "if." 
"I  was  thinking  of  a  plan  .  .  ."  he  added. 
"What  if  you,  who  frequent  Villa  Diedo,  should 
try  to  persuade  that  blessed  woman  .  .  .  Good 
Heavens!  .  .  .  things  have  indeed  gone  far 
enough!"  These  two  exclamations,  containing 
both  censure  and  charity,  expressed  his  opinion 
of  the  "blessed  woman's"  conduct,  and  he  added 
that  perhaps  Bassanelli  might  be  able  to  convince 
her  of  the  propriety  of  Mai-roni's  leaving  the  town 
when  the  electioneering  campaign  should  begin 
and  of  his  not  accepting  either  candidacy. 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      233 

"I?"  cried  Bassanelli.  "I  will  tell  her  so  in 
your  name  if  you  like!" 

"For  pity's  sake!"  the  Commendatore  ex- 
claimed, quite  terrified.  "No,  no!  What  are 
you  thinking  of  ?  For  pity's  sake!" 

"My  dear  Commendatore,"  Bassanelli  began. 
"  Woman  is  the  handle  of  man!  You  would  know 
this  if  you  did  not  dwell  among  the  Orders  of 
Angels,  the  Principalities  and  the  Dominations;1 
and  indeed,  I  don't  know  what  harm  it  could  do 
you  to  confess  to  this  knowledge.  This  handle 
may  be  a  mistress,  just  as  it  may  be  a  wife  or  a 
cook!  My  cook,  for  instance,  has  been  thirty 
years  in  my  house,  and  does  exactly  as  she  likes 
with  me!  Consequently  her  sweethearts  are  my 
masters.  If  she  were  a  man-cook  I  should  prob- 
ably be  very  fond  of  him,  but  he  would  not  be  my 
master.  It  is  the  femininity  of  that  little  grinning 
bundle  that  subjugates  me!" 

Rosina's  nose  once  more.  "Signor,  Don  Giu- 
seppe Flores." 

"Then  that  is  settled,"  said  Bassanelli.  "  I  am 
to  speak  in  your  name." 

"  No,  no,  no!  Pray  be  prudent!"  the  Commen- 
datore called  after  him  as  he  retreated  through  the 
ante-rooms,  his  voice,  answering,  "Yes,  yes,  yes!" 
growing  ever  fainter.  At  the  same  moment  Don 
Giuseppe  entered  the  study.  The  Commendatore 
hastened  forward  to  meet  him,  his  face  expressing 

»A  reference  to  the  Orders  of  Angels  and  the  Celestial  Hier- 
archies as  described  by  Dante. — Translator's  note. 


234  The    Sinner 

the  greatest  astonishment  and  respect.  Standing 
behind  Don  Giuseppe,  Rosina  was  asking  her  master 
by  means  of  gestures,  if  she  should  now  produce  the 
two  cups  of  coffee.  The  Commendatore  took  no 
notice  of  her  gestures,  and,  concluding  that  Don 
Giuseppe,  whose  visits  were  very  rare,  must  have 
something  of  a  secret  nature  to  impart,  he  re- 
newed his  order  not  to  admit  any  one  else.  Seated 
side  by  side  and  happy  in  the  refreshing  con- 
sciousness of  the  identity  of  their  moral  and  religi- 
ous opinions,  of  a  mutual  devotion,  devoid  of 
familiarity  but  nevertheless  very  profound,  these 
two  godly  men  conversed  at  length  in  low  tones; 
these  two  men,  so  unlike  each  other,  and  so  well 
fitted  by  nature  and  by  special  virtues,  each  to 
the  different  mission  which  the  Father  had  called 
him  to  fulfil.  Don  Giuseppe  was  the  first  to 
speak,  pouring  out  his  heart,  little  by  little,  and 
smiling  brightly  upon  the  Commendatore,  who 
listened  with  an  anxious  expression,  for  he  was 
thinking  of  many  things  connected  with  the  sub- 
ject in  hand — things  of  which  the  priest  was 
ignorant — and  of  what  he  had  just  heard  from 
Soldini  and  Bassanelli;  his  meditations  left  him 
little  hope  of  success  for  the  plant  which  Mar- 
chesa  Nene  cherished.  In  his  turn  he  related  these 
things.  He  also  mentioned  the  advice  he  had 
given  Bassanelli,  and  that  gentleman's  strange 
views,  which  were  still  worrying  him.  After  all, 
this  appeal  to  Signora  Dessalle's  influence  was,  in  a 
way,  taking  advantage  of  and  officially  recognising 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      235 

a  state  of  things  which  should  not  be  recognised 
under  any  circumstances.  What  did  Don  Giu- 
seppe think?  Don  Giuseppe  was  rather  du- 
bious, and  his  somewhat  rambling  answer  did 
not  clearly  express  his  meaning,  for  it  did 
indeed  seem  to  him  most  inopportune  to  make 
use  of  that  influence,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he 
did  not  wish  to  worry  his  revered  friend  over 
much. 

"And  you  yourself,  Don  Giuseppe?"  said  the 
Commendatore.  "You  who  know  Maironi,  who 
knew  his  parents  also,  I  believe,  why  do  not  you 
make  an  attempt?" 

Don  Giuseppe  sighed  and  passed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes.  "Dear  me!"  he  answered.  "I  don't 
know  how  to  do  anything;  I  don't  know  how  to 
act,  how  to  speak;  I  am  so  helpless!" 

The  Commendatore  protested  against  this  self- 
disparagement,  and  was  convinced  that  Don 
Giuseppe  would  make  an  effort.  But  he  kept 
this  opinion  to  himself. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he  at  last,  "if  we  cannot  do 
anything  we  must  hope  for  the  best.  You  will 
see  that  the  Lord  Himself  will  soon  take  the  matter 
in  hand." 


When  the  way  was  clear  at  last,  Rosina  came  in 
with  the  coffee. 

"There  has  been  a  regular  procession,  Signor!" 
"  Has  there?"  said  her  mild  master. 


236  The  Sinner 

"I  should  say  so,"  Rosina  replied,  "and  the 
last  one  was  the  saint." 

She  added  that  a  short  time  before,  Marchese 
Scremin  had  arrived  at  the  same  moment  as  that 
individual  who  had  been  there  once  before  about 
the  contract  for  emptying  of  the  cesspools  at  the 
barracks  in  Verona.  She  had  sent  them  both 
away. 

The  faithful  maid  stood  watching  her  master 
with  maternal  satisfaction  as  he  slowly  imbibed 
the  well-earned  comfort  of  the  spiritual  beverage. 
Presently  she  proposed  opening  the  windows, 
there  was  such  a  smell  in  the  room!  Of  what? 
The  Commendatore  did  not  smell  anything. 
Indeed  there  was  a  very  unpleasant  odour  "of 
many  breaths  and  of  the  Prefect's  hair-dye." 
Her  master  would  not  believe  Bassanelli  dyed  his 
hair,  and  Rosina  laughed  boldly  at  his  simplicity. 
And  Signer  Maironi?  Had  he  told  the  Com- 
mendatore his  wife  was  much  better,  but  that, 
on  account  of  that  horrid  woman. 
"  Hush,  hush!  Enough,  enough!"  said  her  master. 
Rosina  was  astonished.  What  harm  was  there  in 
saying  that?  "You  are  far  too  saintly!"  And 
how  about  that  other  poor,  lame  man,  with  his 
cook  who  stole  his  very  shirts  for  her  elderly  lover? 

"  Have  done,  I  tell  you!  Take  the  coffee  away." 

The  Commendatore  gave  the  tray  a  push,  in- 
tending to  push  Rosina  out  at  the  door  in  the 
same  way.  But  Rosina  stood  her  ground.  V\Tas 
it  not  better  to  know  about  things?  It  was  indeed 


The  Commendatore's  Coffee      237 

well  to  know,  but  not  to  tell.  And  how  could  he 
expect  to  know  things  if  no  one  told  them? 

"  My  good  girl,  there  are  many  ways  of  gaining 
knowledge.  Listen  to  me  now." 

Here  the  Commendatore  showed  her  a  little 
book  bound  in  black  leather.  "There  is  more 
knowledge  on  one  page  of  this  little  book  than  in 
all  the  heads  of  all  the  Commendatores  and  of  all 
their  maids  put  together.  And  if  you  could  read 
Latin  I  should  recommend  you  to  study  the 
de  evitatione  curiosce.  .  .  . 

"That  is  all  very  well,  Signore,"  Rosina 
promptly  retorted,  "but  I  am  not  in  the  least 
inquisitive!" 

"There,  there!     Now  go!" 

As  Rosina  was  slowly  approaching  the  door, 
grumbling,  "  Indeed,  I  am  not  in  the  least  in- 
quisitive!" her  master  called  her  back. 

"Rosina,  who  told  you  Signora  Maironi  is  so 
much  better?" 

It  was  the  hand-maiden's  turn  to  triumph  now! 
"You  see!  You  see!  Who  is  inquisitive  now,  I 
should  like  to  know?" 

And  without  deigning  to  answer  his  question, 
the  saucy  creature  trotted  away  with  the  coffee- 
tray. 


CHAPTER  V 
NUMINA,  NON  NOMINA 


MY  dear,"  said  Carlino  Dessalle,  "how  about 
the  flowers?  It  is  almost  five  o'clock 
you  know." 

Jeanne  was  writing  in  the  Ariosto  room  opposite 
the  fresco  in  which  the  lovely  and  frail  Angelica, 
her  naked  limbs  bound  to  the  rocks,  is  depicted 
as  trembling  between  the  she-monster  Orca,  the 
glutton  of  the  sea,  who  is  rising  out  of  the  water, 
and  that  other  monster,  the  hippogriff ,  the  glutton 
of  the  sky,  who  is  descending  with  Ruggero  upon 
his  back. 

"We  dine  at  seven,  do  we  not?"  she  inquired 
without  raising  her  head. 

"Yes,  but  don't  forget  you  have  to  dress." 

Jeanne  neither  moved  nor  answered. 

"Listen,  Jeanne,"  said  her  brother  with  some 
vexation.  "  I  have  not  forced  these  guests  upon 
you.  I  asked  you  if  you  would  be  glad  to  receive 
them  and  you  said  you  would,  so — 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed!  Of  course  I  am  delighted! 
I  will  go  at  once,"  Jeanne  answered  nervously. 

238 


Numina,  non  Nomina  239 

She  started  up  suddenly,  folded  the  sheet  of  paper 
upon  which  she  had  been  writing,  and  hurriedly 
placed  it  in  an  envelope,  quivering  with  impatience 
the  while.  Carlino  stood  watching  her;  her  eyes 
were  red. 

"Oh,  good  heavens!"  said  he  somewhat  im- 
patiently, and  in  an  undertone.  "A  nice  state 
of  mind  this,  for  a  dinner  party!" 

"Nonsense!  What  do  you  mean?  I  am  quite 
happy,  delighted,  even  gay!  I  will  go  and  see  to 
the  gathering  of  those  flowers  at  once.  What 
sort  of  flowers  do  you  wish?" 

Protesting  thus  warmly  she  placed  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders  and  gazed  intently  into  his  eyes, 
anxious  to  see  his  brow  clear  and  to  hear  a  kind 
word  from  him,  for  she  already  regretted  having 
given  him  a  glimpse  of  her  inward  sufferings,  and 
was  filled  with  misgivings. 

"Hush!"  Carlino  cried.  "This  cannot  go  on. 
I  have  always  told  you  you  believe  what  is  not 
true.  You  are  making  yourself  miserable  for  a 
man  who  cares  not  at  all  for  you.  Perhaps  he 
did  have  certain  intentions  in  the  beginning,  but 
he  has  found  out  he  will  not  succeed  with  you!" 

Jeanne  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and 
placed  her  hand  before  his  mouth. 

"No,  Carlino,  you  must  not  say  such  things!" 

"Well  then,  what  has  he  written  you?  What 
are  you  crying  about?  You  are  certainly  crying 
because  of  the  letter  you  received  to-day.  Don't 
deny  it!" 


240  The   Sinner 

"  In  the  first  place  I  am  not  crying,  and  anyway, 
how  should  I  know  why?" 

Carlino   laughed.     "That   is   splendid!" 

Jeanne  laughed  also,  and  immediately  took 
advantage  of  his  good  humour.  "See  how  gay 
I  am !  Now  tell  me  what  flowers  you  want,  there 's 
a  good  boy!" 

He  shook  his  head,  resigned  but  not  convinced, 
and  answered  carelessly,  after  a  long  pause: 

"  Roses.    Only  roses.   Roses  in  great  profusion ! ' ' 

"In  great  profusion?  But  where  am  I  to  find 
them?  They  are  all  out  of  blossom. " 

"Nonsense!  Those  on  the  terrace  are  out  of 
blossom,  but  those  trained  against  the  wall  below 
the  Foresteria  are  loaded  with  most  lovely  roses. 
Come  now,  tell  me  why  you  were  crying?" 

"I  was  crying  with  joy!  Yes,  yes,  yes!  I  am 
quite  happy!" 

She  gave  him  a  hearty  and  sounding  kiss,  and 
withdrawing  her  face  a  little,  looked  smilingly 
at  him  and  murmured;  "When  are  you  going  to 
Milan?" 

"To-morrow,   I  expect." 

"  If  I  go  with  you  will  you  take  me  to  the  Quar- 
tetto  the  day  after  to-morrow?" 

"  What  will  be  going  on  at  the  Quartetto  the  day 
after  to-morrow?" 

Jeanne  mentioned  a  famous  foreign  artist. 

"Good!  I  did  not  know  that.  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  take  you.  But  you  know  my  business 
will  detain  me  at  least  three  or  four  days.  " 


Numina,  non  Nomina  241 

"  I  will  come  away  on  the  third,  Saturday. " 

"Alone?" 

"I  fancy  so." 

"So  be  it  then.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this  caprice?" 

"Thank  you,"  cried  Jeanne  as  she  ran  away. 
Her  brother  called  her  back.  "Excuse  me,"  he 
said,  "but  is  this  a  rendezvous?" 

"Partly,  yes." 

"You  might  have  said  so." 

"I  am  not  sure  yet." 

"Look  here.     You  shall  not  run  after  him." 

"I  am  not  running  after  him." 

Carlino  did  not  seem  convinced  and  insisted: 
"  Remember  that  you  must  safeguard  your  dignity 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

Jeanne  was  on  the  point  of  answering:  "What 
do  I  care?"  but  checked  herself,  and  said:  "You 
need  have  no  fears." 

"That  will  do  then." 

She  passed  swiftly  from  the  room,  quivering  in 
the  hope  of  this  meeting  which  she  had  not 
anticipated. 

Maironi  had  been  gone  a  week,  and  had  left 
in  obedience  to  her  wishes.  Bassanelli  had  not 
refrained  from  communicating  the  Commen- 
datore's  opinion  to  her,  that  it  would  be  advisable 
to  send  the  young  man  away  in  case  the  town 
council  should  be  dissolved  while  the  elections 
were  taking  place.  He  had  added  that  the  royal 
decree  of  dissolution  was  on  its  way,  and  that  it 


16 


242  The  Sinner 

would  be  wise  to  act  before  its  arrival,  because 
very  probably,  the  Royal  Commissary,1 — in  con- 
sideration of  the  pressing  nature  of  certain  ques- 
tions relating  to  the  city  government — would 
order  the  elections  to  take  place  almost  immedi- 
ately, and  so  the  campaign  would  begin  at  once. 
Jeanne  was  not  deceived  as  to  the  true  motives 
of  this  zeal,  but  she  was  very  glad  that  the  Com- 
mendatore  should  take  such  an  interest  in  Piero. 
She  had  long  wished  to  secure  such  patronage  as 
his  for  her  friend,  a  guide  of  such  great  authority, 
who  might  recall  him  from  the  road  along  which 
she  saw  he  had  begun  to  travel,  towards  a  party 
obnoxious  to  her,  not  only  on  account  of  its  creed, 
but  also  because  of  the  uncleanness  of  its  members. 
She  also  hoped  to  obtain  favour  in  the  Commen- 
datore's  eyes,  that  they  might  one  day  conspire 
together.  She  was  well  aware  how  little  hope 
there  was  of  succeeding  in  this  with  a  man  so  stern 
and  pious.  But,  after  all,  conscious  that  she  was 
deserving  of  the  respect  of  all  men,  she  would 
not  allow  herself  to  despair,  and  had  meanwhile 
promised  Bassanelli  to  do  her  best  towards  the 
fulfilment  of  the  Commendatore's  wishes,  and 
had  begged  him  not  to  hide  from  that  gentleman 
her  willingness  to  comply  with  them. 

She  had  found  it  the  more  easy  to  consent  to 
this  sacrifice  because  she  saw  full  well  how  dis- 

1  Royal  Commissary :  The  functionary  appointed  by  gov- 
ernment to  govern  a  city  when  its  Town  Council  has  been 
dissolved. — Translator's  note. 


Numina,  non  Nomina  243 

satisfied  Piero  was  with  himself,  with  the  life  of 
inaction,  he  was  leading,  and  because  she  also 
saw  he  was  tormented  by  a  strange  unrest,  which 
he  told  her  he  himself  was  unable  to  account  for. 
She  now  loved  him  immeasurably  more  than 
when  she  had  cast  the  imaginary  poison  to  the 
winds  from  that  lofty  loggia  at  Praglia,  thus 
silently  protesting  her  resolve  to  live  for  him 
alone.  She  loved  him  far  more  than  when,  upon 
the  night  of  the  eclipse,  she  had  offered  him  her 
lips,  and  prudently  pressed  the  button  of  the 
electric  bell  at  the  same  time.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  love  could  not  be  greater,  and  that,  never- 
theless, it  was  always  increasing.  She  thought 
only  of  him,  felt  him  only,  and  if,  at  first,  she 
had  been  tormented  beyond  expression  by  the 
suspicion  that  he  loved  her  only  in  words,  as  a 
phantom,  an  impersonal  idea  of  love,  or  as  a  sealed 
vase  of  delight,  it  now  seemed  to  her  at  times  that 
she  should  be  satisfied  simply  to  love,  to  love 
always,  even  though  her  love  be  not  reciprocated. 
When  she  was  feeling  well,  although  she  was 
always  delicate,  the  anticipation  of  his  visits,  his 
presence,  and  the  parting  from  him,  caused  her 
suffering;  but  on  the  other  hand,  when  she  was 
not  well  there  was  no  greater  restorative  for  her 
than  seeing  him.  She  would  sometimes  dream 
that  they  were  married  and  dwelling  in  another 
country,  another  house,  amongst  different  people ; 
that  he  spoke  to  her  of  grave  questions,  in  a  low 
voice,  gently  but  with  authority ;  that  their  apart- 


244  The  Sinner 

ments  were  divided,  and  that  she  did  not  venture 
even  to  caress  him,  but  that,  nevertheless,  she 
was  gloriously  happy  only  to  belong  to  him  thus. 
She  loved  immensely  but  still  not  blindly.  She 
believed  she  understood  Piero,  knew  the  defects 
and  excesses  of  his  nature  better  than  any  one 
else;  better,  above  all,  than  he  himself.  She 
believed  she  could  read  in  his  heart  the  secret  of 
that  strange  unrest,  which  he  told  her — perhaps 
not  with  perfect  sincerity — he  himself  could  not 
understand.  She  was  still  convinced  that  he 
loved  her,  but  she  was  sure  his  love  was  no  longer 
in  just  proportion  to  the  protestations  which  his 
lips  still  continued  to  utter,  and  the  consciousness 
of  this  lack  of  sincerity  could  not  but  torment  her. 
She  was  convinced  that  his  many  years  of  religious 
training,  or  ardent  Catholic  faith,  of  pious  prac- 
tices, had  moulded  his  soul  into  a  form  which, 
although  modified  by  reason  where  conscience 
was  concerned,  remained  unchanged  in  the  sub- 
conscious depths;  and  she  attributed  this  strange 
unrest  to  a  vague  sense  of  remorse,  springing 
from  the  depths,  which  were  still  religious.  Al- 
though sure  of  the  bitter  truth  of  this,  still  she  did 
not  wish  to  communicate  to  her  friend  a  sceptic- 
ism which  she  saw  was  repugnant  to  him;  she 
was  glad  to  hear  him  pour  out  passionate  words 
in  defence  of  his  remaining  religious  convictions, 
of  God,  and  of  the  immortal  soul;  she  simply 
wished  and  hoped  that  those  vapours  of  remorse 
might  finally  vanish  in  the  innocence  of  their  tie. 


Numina,  non  Nomina  245 

She  had  therefore  encouraged  him  to  devote 
himself  seriously  to  the  management  of  his  own 
affairs,  and  had  seconded  the  persistent  appeals 
of  the  Brescia  agent,  who,  spurred  by  Marchsea 
Nene,  was  continually  worrying  him.  She  had 
reminded  him  of  his  accustomed  journey  to 
Valsolda  in  May.  He  was  already  behindhand 
this  year!  A  slight  difference  of  opinion  existed 
between  them  upon  this  point.  Piero  did  not 
seem  inclined  to  go  to  Valsolda.  Why?  He  did 
not  say,  did  not  know.  He  simply  did  not  wish  to, 
that  was  all.  Jeanne  suspected  that  she  herself 
was  unconsciously  the  cause  of  this.  If,  in  the 
heat  of  passion,  Piero  had  spoken  to  her  of  the 
lake  as  he  had  done  out  upon  the  hills  on  the  night 
of  the  eclipse,  perhaps  now  the  vapours  of  remorse 
warned  him  to  avoid  the  home  of  his  father  and 
mother,  where  these  vapours  could  only  become 
more  dense  and  acrid.  She  overwhelmed  him 
with  questions,  with  entreaties,  striving  to  wring 
from  him  some  expression  of  the  unjust  sentiment 
he  harboured,  that  she  might  fight  it  openly.  She 
was  unsuccessful.  She  even  reached  the  point 
of  beseeching  him  with  words  of  tenderness  and 
respect  for  those  whose  memory  he  held  most 
sacred.  He  thanked  her  affectionately,  but 
quickly  changed  the  subject. 

At  first  he  would  not  even  hear  of  going  to 
Brescia.  He  was  meditating  a  journey  in  France 
and  Belgium  for  the  purpose  of  studying  certain 
societies  for  co-operative  production:  the  houses 


246  The  Sinner 

founded  by  Leclaire  and  Godin,  the  Voormt  of 
Gand;  and  he  was  not  disinclined  to  remain  there 
some  time  and  even  don  the  workman's  blouse  if 
necessary.  Not  considering  himself  sufficiently 
prepared  for  this  journey  he  finally  yielded,  and 
started  for  Brescia.  He  had  written  three  times 
since  his  departure,  and  his  last  letter  was  in- 
deed the  cause  of  Jeanne's  tearful  eyes. 

For  the  gathering  of  this  great  harvest  of 
flowers  she  descended  to  that  straight  path  that 
runs  between  a  long  line  of  thuje  and  the  hedge  of 
roses  trained  against  that  side  of  the  Foresteria 
that  overlooks  the  Valley  of  Silence.  While  she 
was  waiting  for  the  baskets  to  be  filled  she  rambled 
onward  towards  the  grove  of  great  ilex  trees  which 
was  inviting  her  from  the  other  end  of  the  path, 
and  glowing  warmly  in  the  golden  shade  of  the 
thuje,  in  the  reflection  from  the  walls  which,  high 
up  above,  were  glistening  in  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun.  Upon  reaching  the  cool,  dark  grove  sloping 
down  into  the  Valley  of  Silence,  where  the  grass 
and  the  low  bushes  seemed  to  be  murmuring: 
"Alone?"  she  drew  Piero's  letter  from  her  bosom, 
and  began  to  read  the  last  page  over  again,  while 
her  hands  trembled  violently,  and  then  suddenly, 
as  if  anxious  to  escape  something  bitter  at  the 
close,  she  turned  back  to  the  superscription — 
Oria.  She  let  her  eyes  rest  a  long  time  upon  the 
name,  and  then  glanced  downwards  at  the  opening 
words : 

"You  see  where  I  am.     Forgive  me  for  not 


Numina,  non  Nomina  247 

writing  to  tell  you  I  was  coming  here.  It  came 
about  in  a  quite  inexplicable  manner.  The  night 
before  last  in  Brescia,  I  started  suddenly  from 
my  sleep  with  this  idea,  with  the  words  you  spoke 
when  urging  me  to  go  to  Valsolda  throbbing  in 
my  memory — perhaps  I  had  heard  them  again 
in  some  quickly-forgotten  dream — and  under  the 
almost  terrifying  impression  that  I  was  being  con- 
trolled by  some  supernatural  influence.  I  strove 
to  rid  myself  of  this  impression,  and  determined 
to  go  to  Monzambano  the  next  morning.  But 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  I  was  forced  to  take  the 
train  for  Lecco. 

"  I  travelled  as  far  as  Lecco  in  a  state  of  torpor, 
which  changed  to  intense  agitation  as  soon  as  I 
was  aboard  the  boat.  I  asked  myself  if  I  be  not 
on  the  road  to  insanity!  At  Menaggio  I  became 
much  calmer.  But  when  the  Lake  of  Como  had 
sunk  out  of  sight,  and  the  train  had  entered  the 
lofty  valley  between  the  shady  hills,  as  I  watched 
the  passing  of  small  fields  and  pastures,  of  cluster- 
ing groves,  tiny  houses  surrounded  by  trees, 
narrow  lanes,  distant  roofs,  of  so  many  familiar 
objects  each  in  its  accustomed  place,  I  felt  such 
tenderness,  such  emotion,  such  a  desire  to  weep 
as  it  is  impossible  to  describe;  ind  it  the  same 
time,  God  alone  knows  why,  an  intense  loathing 
of  men,  an  intense  weariness  of  life." 

She  replaced  the  letter  in  her  bosom,  thinking 
of  the  words  that  followed,  as  she  stood  motionless 
there  in  the  path,  her  restless  hand  toying  with 


248  The  Sinner 

the  cool  leaves  of  a  laurel  bush;  nor  did  she  care 
until  she  heard  that  anarchist  of  a  gardener  call 
out  to  his  daughter  Partenope,  and  inquire  if 
there  were  still  many  roses  to  gather  where  she 
was.  Pape  answered  that  there  were  only  thorns 
left.  "The  thorns  are  for  the  like  of  us,"  her 
father  replied. 

"And  are  there  none  for  me,  then?"  Jeanne 
thought,  with  an  inward,  bitter  smile. 

While  the  gardener,  under  Jeanne's  directions, 
was  arranging  the  roses  in  the  hall  of  the  ^Eneid, 
filling  the  great  vase  opposite  the  enthroned 
Dido,  festooning  them  about  the  Herma  of  Virgil 
in  the  corner  between  the  two  windows,  one 
looking  towards  the  west,  the  other  towards  the 
south,  placing  them  in  vases  and  bowls  of  opaque 
crystal  or  of  oxidised  silver,  scattering  them  upon 
the  tablecloth,  itself  of  a  greyish  tinge,  for  Carlino 
had  banished  all  glaring  white  from  the  board,  she 
confessed  to  herself  that  she  would  not  be  willing 
to  exchange  her  thorns  for  poor  Pape's.  No,  her 
suffering  was  warm  and  precious.  It  was  like 
the  fire  of  a  painless  fever  which  benumbs  the 
senses  and  strives  with  the  spirit,  producing  the 
most  vain  and  intense  imaginings.  If  any  one 
thorn  did  really  prick  her,  it  was  the  thought  that 
she  would  have  no  other  moment  of  solitude  until 
late  that  night,  unless,  indeed,  it  be  a  stolen  one. 
That  dear  old  Carlino  could  not  live  withuut 
society,  without  having  people  to  lunch,  to  dinner, 


Numina,  non  Nomina  249 

and  in  the  evening!  He  had  now  taken  it  into 
his  head  to  invite  a  large  party  of  Florentine 
acquaintances  who  had  come  to  visit  the  Lake  of 
Garda.  They  had  arrived  that  morning  from 
Venice.  Carlino  had  escorted  them  about  the 
town,  had  then  accompanied  them  back  to  the 
hotel,  and  was  now  expecting  them  to  dinner. 
Invitations  had  been  freely  distributed  among 
the  members  of  the  indigenous  society,  requesting 
their  presence  at  half-past  nine  o'clock,  to  hear 
some  music  and  a  lecture  by  Carlino  himself  on 
the  mysterious  theme:  Numina,  non  nomina, 
which  was  to  be  illustrated  by  means  of  a  magic 
lantern.  Carlino's  original  intention  had  been 
to  deliver  this  lecture  at  the  rooms  of  the  local 
literary  club,  but  he  had  relinquished  the  idea 
of  giving  it  at  that  place  partly  on  account  of  the 
personal  character  of  the  discourse,  partly  be- 
cause the  hall  at  the  club  had  struck  him  as  being 
damp  enough  to  mildew  the  very  gas  itself,  and 
partly  because  he  had  once  been  there  with 
Jeanne  who  had  worn  a  cloak  trimmed  with 
chinchilla,  upon  catching  sight  of  which,  a  pretty 
dark  girl  in  the  audience  had  whispered  audibly 
to  a  pretty  fair  girl:  "  Meow!  Meow!  Pussy-cat, 
pussy-cat!" 

"How  are  you  going  to  seat  these  people?"  he 
said  to  Jeanne.  "  I  warn  you  I  won't  have  that 
horrid  old  xvitch  of  a  Bertha  beside  me!" 

Jeanne    reproached    him    for    his    ingratitude 


250  The  Sinner 

towards  Signorina  Bertha  Rothenbaum,  her  former 
governess,  who  was  now  a  translator  of  Italian 
novels  and  correspondent  for  several  German 
newspapers,  and  who  had  always  been  most  kind 
to  Carlino.  "  I  could  not  put  her  beside  you, 
any  way,"  said  Jeanne. 

The  two  married  women  of  the  party,  whom 
the  Dessalles  called  familiarly  "Laura"  and 
"  Bice,  "  must  sit  on  either  side  of  Carlino.  "  Don't 
put  Destemps  beside  Bice,"  said  he,  "for  if  you 
do  it  will  simply  be  good-bye  Bice,  and  I  shall  get 
a  twist  in  my  neck  and  in  my  heart  as  wrell  listening 
to  Laura,  who  will  surely  hold  forth  to  me  all 
through  dinner  about  bouchees  de  pain,  or  the 
crdche,  or  the  refuge  for  scorbutics,  or  the  con- 
sumptives' hospital,  or  some  other  equally  char- 
itable and  loathsome  matter.  I  shall  consider 
myself  fortunate  if  she  does  not  get  upon  the 
subject  of  universal  suffrage  or  a  reform  of  the 
Senate,  or  give  me  a  minute  description  of  some 
distinguished  Esquimaux  or  Kaffir  gentleman 
who  has  lately  dined  with  her." 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  avoid  placing  Des- 
temps next  to  Bice.  The  party  of  visitors  was 
composed  of  the  two  married  gentlewomen,  the 
former  governess,  whom  the  Dessalles  always 
called  by  her  Christian  name,  a  young  girl,  and 
four  gentlemen  of  the  bourgeoisie,  who  were 
always  addressed  by  their  surnames.  Besides 
that  turbulent  mouche  du  cache  of  a  Laura,  \vho 
capered  lightly  upon  the  wheels,  the  pole,  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  251 

very  reins  of  the  Car  of  State,  and  sometimes  even 
round  about  those  imperturbable  automata  of 
the  Church;  besides  the  giddy  and  good-natured 
Bice,  rendered  startlingly  frank  and  bold  by  her 
official  maturity  as  mother-in-law  and  grand- 
mother, a  maturity  which  her  lips  proclaimed 
readily  enough,  although  her  heart  denied  it  and 
trusted  in  her  lasting  beauty;  besides  the  dan- 
gerous Destemps,  with  fair  hair  such  as  the  old 
masters  painted,  with  mystical  and  sarcastic  blue 
eyes,  there  was  the  Florentine  professor,  Gonnelli, 
the  Yorick  of  all  gay  companies,  to  whom  was 
accorded  great  liberty  of  speech,  and  his  young 
daughter,  a  Gonnellina  1  of  seventeen,  tongue-tied 
indeed,  but  with  lively,  searching  eyes,  and  an 
ardent  thirst  for  life's  experiences,  wrhich  thirst, 
at  present  in  its  first  stage,  burned  in  her  brain 
in  the  form  of  enthusiasm  for  such  books  as  reflect 
life,  and  for  their  authors.  There  was  Signorina 
Bertha,  short,  lean,  and  destitute  of  eye-brows, 
with  a  little  crimson  nose,  a  pair  of  small  grey 
eyes,  and  an  intelligent  smile  that  spoke  of  much 
kindliness.  There  was  the  tall,  stout,  bearded 
and  bespectacled  Bessanesi,  the  landscapist,  who 
was  always  intent  upon  discovering  the  hidden 
refinement  in  the  vulgar  aspect  of  things,  or,  in 
other  words,  that  beauty,  which  certainly  and 
indeed  fortunately  is  apparent  only  to  the  elect; 
Bessanesi,  who  was  interested  in  every  branch 

1  Gonnellina :  A  play  upon  the  name  Gonnelli,  which 
means  "  short  skirts,"  so  Gonnellina  may  be  translated  "  Miss 
Petticoat." — Translator's  note. 


252  The  Sinner 

of  art  and  science,  a  clever  talker,  inclined,  per- 
haps, to  lapse  into  twaddle,  but  most  correct  in 
his  tastes.  And  finally  there  was  Professor  Dane, 
the  famous  Professor  Dane  of  the  Dublin  Uni- 
versity, whose  dress  was  half  fashionable,  half 
clerical,  who  was  always  carefully  wrapped  up 
and  enveloped  by  the  delicate  hands  of  fair  ladies 
in  the  cottonwool  of  perpetual  admiration.  His 
bearing  towards  all  women  was  exquisite,  but  it 
was  indeed  worthy  of  Petrarch  towards  five  or 
six  of  the  more  intellectual  between  thirty  and 
forty  years  of  age.  He  was  a  distinguished 
historian  and  thoroughly  well  versed  in  music 
and  art.  Dane  was,  so  to  speak,  the  sacred  and 
venerable  banner  of  the  party.  At  Fiesole,  dur- 
ing his  convalescence  after  a  liver  attack,  he  had 
confessed  to  Donna  Laura  his  ardent  wish  to  pay 
a  short  visit  to  the  Lake  of  Garda,  and  his  disin- 
clination to  go  there  alone.  "Alone?"  Donna 
Laura  had  cried,  "Never!"  And  so  this  whirl- 
wind of  a  woman,  who  would  by  no  means  have 
enjoyed  a  somewhat  too  lengthy  journey  &  deux 
with  the  precious  invalid,  had  fired  letters  and 
notes  in  all  directions,  inviting  half  the  universe 
to  join  the  Professor's  following.  Donna  Bice 
and  Bertha  had  accepted  out  of  respect  for  Dane; 
Destemps  because  Donna  Bice  had  done  so; 
Bessanesi's  acceptance  was  prompted  by  his 
aesthetic  curiosity  concerning  the  company.  Gon- 
nelli  had  accepted  for  his  Eleonora's  sake,  and  also 
because  he  anticipated  much  amusement  at  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  253 

expense  of  the  idol  and  his  fair  and  giddy  wor- 
shippers. The  Gonnellina  had  grown  feverish  at 
the  bare  idea  of  travelling  with  Destemps,  al- 
though that  fair-haired  genius  despised  the  im- 
mature palpitations  of  a  Backfisch  of  seventeen. 


II 


The  Dessalles,  the  two  matrons,  Signorina 
Bertha,  and  the  Professor  having  started  the  con- 
versation in  English  at  the  beginning  of  dinner, 
Gonnelli,  a  Yorick  who  was  unacquainted  with 
that  tongue,  apostrophised  Tiepolo's  magnificent 
^Eneas  in  an  undertone,  and  to  the  following  effect : 
"  Eheu,  Troiae  fili,  nonne  tibi  quoque.  ..."  thus 
expressing  his  contempt  for  English  in  a  Latin 
all  his  own,  which  the  ladies  could  not  understand, 
and  which  the  gentlemen  dared  not  translate. 
Upon  seeing  Destemps  and  Bessanesi  laugh  and 
Carlino  Dessalle  wrinkle  his  nose  in  disapproval, 
Donna  Laura  and  Donna  Bice  understood  that 
the  Latin  was  untranslatable,  but  the  simple 
Bertha,  whose  curiosity  was  aroused,  turned  for 
aid  to  the  omniscient  Dane.  He  had  compre- 
hended not  a  word  of  this  disjointed  nonsense, 
and  now  appealed  to  Gonnelli,  with  his  faint  smile 
and  awkward  Italian:  "Was  that  Trojan  Latin, 
Signor?" 

"Yes,  yes!  Trojan  Latin,"  said  Gonnelli. 
"  Very  Trojan!  And  I  swear  by  that  bean-pole  of 
a  Dido — I  beg  your  pardon,  Carlino,  but  you  did 


254  The  Sinner 

not  paint  her — that  if  you  don't  drop  your  English, 
Destemps,  Bessanesi,  and  I  will  talk  Trojan  Latin 
throughout  dinner,  while  my  daughter  will  hold 
her  tongue  in  the  same  language!" 

They  all  laughed,  even  the  Professor,  and  a  very 
lively  conversation  was  continued  in  Italian.  The 
two  gentlewomen  who,  at  aristocratic  gatherings, 
wore  with  conscious  dignity  the  ideal  uniform 
prescribed,  as  it  were,  by  place  and  rank,  were 
only  too  glad  to  lay  it  aside  here  among  these 
intellectuals,  whose  society  indeed  they  greatly 
preferred.  There  was  little  congeniality  between 
these  women  and  Jeanne,  but  they  made  no  secret 
of  their  great  liking  for  her  brother,  a  liking  shared, 
moreover,  by  all  women,  perhaps  because,  with 
a  man  like  Carlino,  exquisite  in  his  bearing,  a  fine 
musician,  well  versed  in  all  branches  of  art,  whose 
views  were  paradoxical,  whose  words  breathed 
intense  life,  but  whose  nature  was,  after  all,  cold 
and  passionless,  there  could  be  no  danger  of  going 
beyond  a  pleasant  titillation  of  the  intellect.  As 
to  Laura,  who  had  been  a  widow  for  some  years, 
she  despised  all  gallantry.  Her  friends  said  that 
she  allowed  Dane  to  play  Petrarch  to  her  in  a  mild 
way,  simply  that  she  might  not  forget  she  was  a 
woman;  that  she  might  not  some  day  don  a  min- 
ister's hat  or  a  cardinal's  skull  cap  by  mistake; 
and  indeed  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  find 
a  more  harmless  memento.  Bice,  who  gloried  in 
having  inspired  Destemps  with  an  ardent  passion, 
but  who  was  far  more  virtuous  than  might  some- 


Numina,  non  Nomina  255 

times  be  supposed,   kept  him  bound,   but  at  a 
respectful  distance. 

They  fell  to  discussing  the  little  city  where 
Bessanesi  professed  to  perceive— Goodness  only 
knows  why!— a  faint  odour  of  the  sea,  so  that  he 
was  always  imagining  the  melancholy  Adriatic  lay 
beyond  the  crumbling  summit  of  every  wall  that 
rose  against  the  sky.  Destemps  was  in  love  with 
everything  he  had  seen,  even  with  an  old,  squinting 
sacristan,  dirty,  lame,  hunchbacked,  and  devotedly 
attached  to  his  own  church,  who,  upon  Gonnelh's 
exclaiming:  "A  foul  smelling  hole,  this  church  of 
yours!"  had  answered  calmly  enough:  "Ah,  no, 
Signer!  It  is  I  who  smell!" 

Gonnelli,  who  had  never  before  crossed  the  Po, 
was  tolerant  and  patronising.  "Pretty,  this! 
Not  bad,  that!  Still  it  is  not  Tuscan.^  It  looks 
rather  Tuscan,  but,  after  all,  it  is  not." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Carlino,  "on  the  fagade 
of  that  fine  Gothic  church  you  saw  the  tombs  of 
the  Florentines  who  took  up  their  abode  in  this 
very  town  in  thirteen  hundred." 

"  Yes,  but  they  were  forced  to  do  so,  and  what 
awful  Florentine  oaths  they  must  have  sworn! 
You  may  see  for  yourself  that  the  arch-priest  felt 
in  duty  bound  to  put  them  outside!" 

Bice  protested  that,  although  she  was  a  Floren- 
tine, she  adored  the  smaller  cities,  and  that  she 
would  be  delighted  to  dwell  in  this  special  town 
six  months  in  the  year.  Then  Dane  made  a  most 
graceful  little  speech,  choosing  his  words  slowly 


256  The  Sinner 

and  completing  them  by  the  movements  of  his 
uplifted  hand,  as  white  and  beautiful  as  a  woman's. 
He  pronounced  the  town  quite  charming.  It 
possessed,  he  said,  the  little  old  genial  soul  of  a 
venerable  Italian  priest;  cunning,  witty,  versed 
in  the  classics,  fond  of  a  quiet,  easy  life,  of  a  life, 
however,  not  devoid  of  certain  episodes  of  a 
mildly  tender  nature,  somewhat  sceptical,  slightly 
greasy  about  the  collar,  and  rather  shiny  about 
the  elbows.  This  strange  idea  had  been  sug- 
gested to  Dane  by  "  all  those  narrow,  treacherous 
lanes,  that  are  always  pretending  to  go  to  the 
right  and  then  suddenly  come  out  on  the  left,  or 
to  go  to  the  left  and  then  come  out  on  the  right; 
by  all  this  old  Latin,  part  of  which  savours  of  the 
seminary  and  part  of  antiquity;  by  all  those  old 
sixteenth  and  even  eighteenth  century  palaces, 
by  all  those  contrasts,  which  seem  intentionally 
mischievous,  the  contrasts  between  this  minute 
and  essentially  pretty  architecture,  and  the 
neighbouring,  stupid-looking  houses;  and  finally, 
by  all  these  silent  spots  where,  here  and  there 
blades  of  grass  spring  up,  grass  of  such  a  soft 
green  that  we  feel  we  also  are  quietly  vegetating 
with  it,  and  we  think  of  nothing,  while  our  hearts 
grow  tender  and  spring-like." 

That  was  what  the  dead  city  was  like,  but  how 
about  the  living  city?  How  about  society? 
Bice  was  also  anxious  to  hear.  "  If  I  came  here 
to  live  I  should  be  posted!"  And  she  laughed 
her  little  short  laugh,  that  was  still  juvenile,  and 


Numina,  non  Nomina  257 

that  always  made  Destemps  quiver  and  turn  pale. 
Carlino  answered  that  the  living  city  was  a  world 
far  larger,  more  varied  and  curious  than  that 
small  world  "in  which  we  live"  in  big  towns, 
except  perhaps,  in  Rome  or  Paris.  "It  is  the 
delicious,  provinical  world  you  will  see  at  my 
lecture  this  evening;  it  will  quite  fill  the  house," 
he  added. 

•  "  Don't  give  the  lecture, "  said  Jeanne.  "  It 
won't  do  at  all,  I  assure  you.  Let  the  magic 
lantern  suffice.  There  will  be  no  end  to  the  trouble 
you  will  stir  up!  I  happen  to  know  they  have 
begun  to  gossip  already.  People  will  be  shocked !  " 

Bice  clapped  her  hands.  "Give  it!  Do  give 
it!"  she  cried.  The  Gonnellina's  eyes  sparkled, 
and  a  low  "Yes,  yes!"  escaped  her,  at  which  the 
others  laughed.  Her  father,  however,  protested. 
"  That  rascally  Carlino  is  corrupting  my  daughter!" 
he  cried,  while  Carlino  swore  solemnly  that  his 
lecture  would  be  a  perfect  Filotea1  of  amiability 
and  propriety. 

"  With  those  illustrations?"  cried  Jeanne.  This 
produced  an  outburst  of  merry  curiosity.  Even 
the  outspoken  Bice  demanded  an  explanation. 
The  Gonnellina  said  never  a  word,  but  blushed 
hotly,  while  Laura,  the  icy  Laura,  maintained 
an  indifferent  and  scornful  silence,  and  Carlino  pro- 
tested violently  against  his  sister,  who  hastened 
to  explain  that  she  had  never  dreamed  of  being 

1  Filotea :  a  prayer-book  much  used  in  Italy. — Translator's 
note. 


258  The   Sinner 

so  entirely  misunderstood,  that  the  slides  simply 
represented  some  well-known  residents  of  the 
town,  and  would,  of  course,  be  perfectly  harmless 
without  the  lecturer's  comments,  but  most  dan- 
gerous if  commented  upon,  no  matter  how  ami- 
ably. Hardly  had  this  topic  been  exhausted 
when  Donna  Laura  inquired: 

"And  how  about  socialism?  Is  there  much  of 
it  here?" 

Carlino  replied  that  he  knew  very  little  about 
it,  because  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  politics. 
He  only  knew  that  the  city  government  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  clericals,  and  that  his  own  gar- 
dener was  in  the  hands  of  the  anarchists. 

"  Yes, "  said  the  lady,  "  but  the  city  government 
will  not  remain  in  their  hands  very  long  now. " 

She  spoke  with  conviction,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  knows  everything,  the  future  as  well  as  the 
past.  She  did  indeed  know  far  more  than  Car- 
lino  about  the  political  conditions  of  the  little 
town,  and  seeing  that  he  was  astonished  at  her 
knowledge,  she  determined  to  bewilder  him 
completely. 

"And  how  is  that  protege  of  yours — that  rather 
ambitious  Marchese  with  the  mad  daughter? 
And  his  son-in-law,  the  ex-mayor,  the  ex-clerical? 
Has  he  gone  to  Brescia?  Then  he  is  certainly 
working  for  us  there. ' ' 

Upon  being  informed  by  Jeanne  that  the  son- 
in-law  had  indeed  gone  to  Brescia,  but  on  private 
business,  and  without  the  slightest  intention  of 


Numina,  non  Nomina  259 

meddling  with  the  election  of  the  new  deputy,  the 
lady  burst  out: 

"That  won't  do!  He  must  work!  We  are  all 
working  for  that  borough!  It  is  a  perfect  mania 
with  us!" 

Jeanne  looked  vexed  and  Bice  laughed.  "Of 
course!"  said  Gonnelli.  "A  victory  at  Brescia! 
It  would  be  no  small  matter,  by  Jove!" 

"A   plaster   Victory!"1    Bessanesi   observed. 

Donna  Laura  lost  her  patience.  "Oh,  you, 
Bessanesi,  would  give  up  even  the  bronze  one  for 
the  sake  of  a  calembour!" 

"Perhaps,  Countess;  but  I  would  give  it  up  to 
you.  The  government  should  have  only  the 
plaster  one!" 

Donna  Laura  grew  so  warm  that,  to  soothe  her, 
Carlino  promised  to  send  a  note  to  the  Marchese 
at  once,  begging  him  to  come  up  to  Villa  Diedo 
on  urgent  business.  Donna  Laura  would  then 
have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  him,  and 
of  binding  him,  by  skilful  and  flattering  insinua- 
tions, to  hurl  his  son-in-law  upon  the  field  of 
battle.  Donna  Laura,  feigning  ignorance  of  the 
attachment  between  Jeanne  and  Maironi,  a  vague 
account  of  which  had  reached  her  through  the 
Ministry  of  the  Interior,  inquired  if  this  Signor 
Maironi  was  a  man  of  parts,  if  he  took  an  interest 
in  sociology.  Destemps,  on  the  other  hand, 

1  A  wonderfully  beautiful  bronze  Victory,  a  work  of  early 
Roman  art,  was  discovered  at  Brescia,  and  may  now  be  seen 
in  the  local  museum  of  that  city. — Translator's  note. 


260  The  Sinner 

asked  about  the  mad  woman.  Donna  Bice  and  he 
thought  they  had  once  met  the  Maironis  at  the 
baths  of  Bormio.  Was  he  not  a  tall,  dark-com- 
plexioned young  fellow,  with  a  tangle  of  rebellious 
hair  and  grey  eyes  that  had  a  singular  expression 
of  intellectual  eagerness  ?  She  was  slim,  and  of 
medium  height,  so  Destemps  said,  with  eyes  the 
colour  of  the  Rhone,  and  a  sphinx-like  face,  the 
face  of  a  sphinx  who  refuses  to  propound  her 
riddle.  The  others,  including  Donna  Bice,  de- 
clared she  was  most  insipid;  Destemps,  however, 
would  not  admit  that.  It  was  true  she  spoke  very 
little,  and  what  she  said  was  lacking  in  individ- 
uality, but  Destemps  compared  her  dull  words  to 
the  cryptogamous  growth  upon  stagnant  water 
which  conceals  its  true  colour  and  depth.  He 
believed  she  possessed  a  deep  nature,  a  nature 
certainly  unrevealed  even  to  her  husband.  Donna 
Bice  ridiculed  this  psychology;  but  then,  it  was 
the  regular  habit  of  Donna  Bice  and  Destemps 
to  contradict  each  other  thus.  "Yes,"  said  he, 
"a  singular  creature,  deep  and  unrevealed.  In 
fact  she  became  insane,  so  that  proves  I  am  right 
in  my  judgment.  And  I  am  willing  to  wager 
no  one  knows  why  she  became  insane. "  No,  the 
Dessalles  did  not  know.  Carlino  had  heard  that 
it  was  hereditary  insanity,  but  Jeanne  had  heard 
this  report  contradicted.  Bessanesi  asked  her  if 
there  was  any  hope  of  recovery.  "Alas,  no!" 
said  she,  with  becoming  gravity  of  face  and  tone. 
She  immediately  became  conscious  of  her  hypo- 


Numina,  non  Nomina  261 

crisy,  her  heart  trembled,  and  she  quickly  added : 
"There  is  no  hope." 

Then  Dane  told  of  a  Russian  lady,  a  friend  of 
his,  who  recovered  after  twenty  years  spent  in  an 
asylum,  and  who  left  it  at  the  most  unfortunate 
moment,  for  her  relatives,  who  had  at  first  wept 
for  her  as  for  one  dead,  had  not  only  become  re- 
signed, but  were  enjoying  her  property,  and  had 
arranged  their  lives  as  if  she  had  ceased  to  exist. 
With  exquisite  and  skilful  touches,  Dane  described 
the  moment  of  the  poor  woman's  return  to  her 
home  where  she  saw  the  traces  of  changes  which 
had  been  hastily  and  silently  concealed,  traces  of 
the  music-room  which  had  taken  the  place  of  her 
former  bedroom,  indications  and  signs  of  other 
changes  more  painful  still  and  that  sought  to 
escape  her  observation.  Jeanne  seemed  to  take 
the  same  quiet  interest  in  this  recital  as  did  the 
others.  She  did  indeed  follow  it  with  that  min- 
gling of  horror  and  pleasure  with  which  we  picture 
to  ourselves  some  awful  thing  that  will  never 
happen.  But  a  glance  from  Carlino,  one  single, 
unintentional  glance,  sufficed  to  trouble  her,  like 
an  electric  flash  lighting  up  the  shadows  of  the 
heart.  From  the  vase  before  her  she  took  a  rose 
and  offered  it  to  Dane. 

"  For  the  artist, "  said  she,  smiling,  and  rose  from 
the  table. 

They  all  went  out  to  the  terrace  on  the  east  to 
smoke.  As  they  were  crossing  the  Iphigenia 


262  The  Sinner 

room,  Bice  said  to  Destemps:  "I  warn  you  that 
this  Signer  Maironi  and  our  hostess  ...  at  least, 
I  believe  so!  You  had  better  tell  Laura." 

As  soon  as  she  could  free  herself  from  Professor 
Dane,  who,  more  like  a  gallant  than  a  theologian, 
had  offered  her  his  arm  upon  leaving  the  dining- 
room,  Jeanne  went  up  to  her  own  apartments  to 
write  to  the  Marchese.  Jealous  as  she  was  of  these 
short  and  precious  moments  of  solitude,  what 
Destemps  had  said  about  Signora  Maironi,  and 
that  other  tale  of  the  mad  woman  who  had  re- 
covered, had  passed  almost  completely  from  her 
memory,  and  lingered  there  only  like  faint  shad- 
ows upon  the  background  of  a  picture,  which, 
though  visible,  do  not  hold  the  eye.  The  thought 
of  the  letter,  the  thought  of  a  meeting  had  once 
more  taken  violent  hold  upon  her,  and,  as  she  gave 
herself  up  to  introspection,  she  lost  the  sense  of 
time  and  of  external  things.  The  sudden  pealing 
of  the  great  bells  at  the  Sanctuary  did  not  rouse 
her,  but  rather  entered  into  her  heart,  and  set  the 
memory  of  the  letter  to  vibrating.  She  sighed, 
drew  the  letter  forth,  and  once  more  began  to 
study  it. 

"  Of  course,  no  one  was  expecting  me.  The 
house  was  closed  and  I  was  obliged  to  send  to 
Albogasio.  There  were  no  candles,  there  was  not 
even  water,  and  it  took  a  long  time  to  make  me  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  prepare  a  room  for  me  for  the 
night.  When,  at  last,  towards  ten  o'clock  I 
found  myself  alone  with  the  care-taker,  in  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  263 

silent  house,  the  emotion  I  had  experienced  on 
the  journey  had  entirely  passed  away;  this  was 
due,  in  part,  to  all  the  annoyance  I  had  been 
subjected  to,  in  part  to  great  weariness.  I  was 
indeed  much  surprised  and  almost  pained  to  find 
myself  so  cold.  I  went  out  to  the  terrace  which 
was  built  by  my  father,  at  least  so  an  old  woman 
called  Leu,  who  lives  in  the  town,  tells  me,  and 
where  my  Uncle  Ribera, '  the  poor  Scior  Ingegner,' 
as  he  is  still  called  here,  and  who  died  before  I 
was  born,  used  to  spend  long  hours,  sometimes 
holding  my  little  sister  upon  his  knee,  my  poor 
little  sister  who  was  drowned  when  she  was  four 
years  old.  I  recalled  certain  affectionate  ex- 
pressions Leu  had  used  concerning  them :  '  He  was 
so  good,  that  he  was,  and  she  was  so  pretty!' 
As  I  thought  of  these  words,  alone,  in  that  empty 
house,  on  that  terrace  where  the  dead  passion- 
flower vine  that  once  shaded  my  father,  my 
mother,  my  uncle,  and  my  little  sister,  still  clings 
to  the  bars  of  an  iron  pavilion,  something  I  cannot 
express  began  to  stir  within  me,  and  at  last  I  wept 
bitter  tears  over  my  neglected  and  silent  house, 
over  my  dead  kindred,  and  over  myself,  who  am 
not  worthy  of  those  lofty  souls.  '  He  was  so 
good,  that  he  was,  and  she  was  so  pretty!'  Poor 
innocent  little  sister  of  mine!  It  was  a  very 
dark  night.  I  could  not  even  distinguish  the 
lake,  lying  black  and  motionless  below  the  terrace, 
nor  the  mountains,  whose  monstrous  brows  were 
enveloped  in  clouds,  which  alone  shone  with  a 


264  The  Sinner 

faint  light.  When  I  had  relieved  my  feelings 
by  allowing  my  tears  to  flow,  I  experienced  an 
intense  and  painful  longing  that  my  dead  might 
give  me  some  sign  of  their  presence,  and  I  waited, 
breathless  and  listening,  and  all  the  while  con- 
scious of  my  own  folly.  First  I  thought  I  heard 
the  water  kiss  the  bank ;  then  it  was  the  voice  of  a 
night-bird  in  the  woods,  on  the  opposite  shore; 
then  I  heard  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  more! 
I  was  about  to  turn  away,  sighing,  from  the  spot, 
when,  for  a  moment,  I  caught  a  faint  sound  of 
great  and  distant  bells.  ..." 

Jeanne  read  no  farther.  She  rose,  pale  and 
almost  fierce,  wrote  a  hurried  note  to  Marchese 
Scremin,  and  went  down-stairs  just  in  time  to 
hear  Carlino  defending  his  theory  on  love  and  law 
against  Dane  and  Donna  Bice.  She  felt  that  at 
that  moment  Maironi  would  have  been  grieved  to 
hear  her  take  Carlino's  part,  and  still — knowing, 
as  she  did,  that  she  would  immediately  regret  it — 
she  yielded  to  a  spirit  of  rebellion,  and  declared 
in  a  loud  voice  that  certain  sentiments  were  in- 
deed most  beautiful,  virtuous,  and  poetical,  and 
that  truth  was  cruel,  hard,  and  cold,  but  that  it 
was  Carlino  who  had  said  so.  Donna  Bice  laughed 
one  of  her  little  silvery  laughs,  and  glanced  at 
Dessalle. 

in 

Villa  Diedo,  that  fine  pile  with  its  many  openings 
and  its  diadem  of  statues,  light  streaming  from 


Numina,  non  Nomina  265 

all  its  windows,  rose  white,  above  the  two  terraces 
crowded  with  guests,  towards  a  gloomy  chaos  of 
black  clouds,  resembling  in  its  up-soaring  a  lofty 
and  enormous  hillside  flower.  And  in  and  about 
this  flower,  to  which  the  blaze  of  light  gave  life, 
there  had  gathered  a  swarm  of  small,  living 
creatures,  attracted  by  the  brightness  and  by  the 
odour  of  pleasure.  Many  vain  little  moths  there 
were,  some  fatuous  butterflies,  many  small  and 
inquisitive  insects,  and  some  spiteful  mosquitoes, 
while  not  a  few  weighty  beetles  and  a  host  of 
noble  bees  produced  a  continuous  buzzing,  that 
was,  perhaps,  as  wearisome  to  inanimate  nature, 
which  lay  worshipping  there  in  the  surrounding 
darkness  of  the  night,  as  the  persistent  bickering 
of  the  sacristan  with  some  silly,  chattering  old 
woman  would  be  to  the  worshippers  in  a  great 
cathedral.  Only  the  roses,  clinging  to  the  balus- 
trade of  the  terrace  on  the  west,  quivered  and 
moved,  as  if  their  long  domesticity  had  com- 
municated to  them  the  sense  of  human  enjoyment. 
Thus  said  a  local  poet,  who  was  walking  on  the 
terrace,  to  the  lady — herself  a  native  of  the  place — 
who  leaned  upon  his  arm. 

"  But  do  you  really  think  there  is  much  human 
enjoyment  here?"  said  she.  "  With  the  exception 
of  myself  and,  perhaps,  of  you  also,  at  the  present 
moment,"  she  added  in  a  languid  and  sarcastic 
tone  that  minimised  the  tenderness  of  her  words, 
"  all  the  others  are  more  or  less  bored.  Don't  you 
see  how  glum  they  look?  For  all  the  world  like 


266  The  Sinner 

people  who  are  awaiting  their  turn  in  a  dentist's 
anteroom.  Fortunately  that  carrot-coloured  man 
over  there  seems  to  be  enjoying  himself." 

The  carrot-coloured  individual,  who  was  no 
other  than  the  sour  man,  was  wandering  about 
the  rooms  all  by  himself.  Clad  in  a  business 
suit,  he  was  circulating  among  the  diaphanous 
and  delicately-hued  toilettes,  examining  the  fur- 
niture piece  by  piece,  with  a  special  sneer  for 
each,  and  was  by  no  means  the  picture  of  human 
enjoyment;  but  it  is  only  just  to  state  that  this 
handsome  gentlewoman,  who  was  intensely  aris- 
tocratic in  taste  and  intellect,  but  whose  share  of 
this  world's  goods  was  but  small,  suffered  more  or 
less  at  sight  of  the  Dessalles'  extravagance — the 
Dessalles,  in  whose  veins  ran  only  the  blood  of 
bankers! — and  she  was  also  irritated  by  what  she 
termed  the  prostration  of  the  whole  city  before 
their  millions.  Therefore  her  declaration  that 
all  the  guests  were  bored,  was  necessarily  some- 
what malicious,  and  made  the  poet  smile  in  his 
own  no  less  malicious  heart.  When  the  presen- 
tations were  over,  the  crowd  of  guests,  many  of 
whom  had  never  before  entered  the  villa,  while 
others  had  not  seen  it  since  its  restoration,  flowed 
through  the  five  Tiepolo  rooms,  and  found  much 
to  interest  them  in  these  magnificent  surroundings, 
where  the  fastidious  gentlewoman  found  nothing 
to  praise  save  the  frescoes,  declaring  the  furniture 
to  be  showy  rather  than  elegant,  and  finding  a 
trace  of  vulgarity  in  everything.  She,  with  a. 


Numina,  non  Nomina  267 

few  others,  took  great  delight  in  criticising  a 
certain  insignificant  individual,  who  was,  indeed, 
both  vain  and  vulgar,  and  who,  having  made  the 
Dessalles'  acquaintance  some  weeks  before,  and 
having  had  the  opportunity  of  carefully  in- 
specting the  villa,  was  now  going  about  distributing 
officious  and  whispered  information. — "The  stuffs 
were  all  woven  to  order  to  harmonise  with  Tiepolo's 
decorations. — Everything  in  this  room  is  antique, 
and  was  brought  from  Rome. — This  hall  wras 
copied  from  a  hall  in  Palazzo  X  in  Venice.— 
The  painter  Fusarin  designed  the  furniture  for 
this  apartment. — The  herma  of  Homer  in  the 
music-room  is  an  antique. — The  herma  of  Virgil 
in  the  dining-room  is  the  work  of  a  Russian 
sculptor. — Those  of  Ariosto  and  Tasso  are  by 
...  by  ...  I  will  go  and  ask  Carlino  at  once." 
After  this  piece  of  ridiculous  and  presumptuous 
familiarity  the  facetious  cavalier  promptly  bap- 
tised him  "Carlino's  foster-brother!"  and  the 
nickname  stuck  to  him  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
There  were  indeed  a  few  competent  critics,  both 
male  and  female,  who  appreciated  the  exquisite 
harmony  between  the  draperies  and  the  frescoes, 
who  paused  to  admire  the  gilt  frieze  upon  the  white 
leather  of  the  antique  doors,  and  who  did  not  pass 
through  the  corridor  between  the  rooms  of  Virgil 
and  Tasso  without  admiring  the  magnificent 
Venetian  mouldings  upon  the  walls.  But  most 
of  the  guests  delighted  in  other  things:  in  the 
richly  dressed  crowd,  in  the  blaze  of  light,  in  the 


268  The  Sinner 

display  of  wealth,  and  in  the  very  fact  that  they 
themselves  were  among  the  guests,  although  this 
last  source  of  enjoyment  was  somewhat  lessened 
by  the  enormous  number  of  invitations  that  had 
been  issued,  and  lacked  the  flavour  greater  ex- 
clusiveness  would  have  imparted.  Many  of  the 
men  were,  moreover,  delighted  at  this  oppor- 
tunity of  offering  their  arm  to  a  lady  of  rank,  the 
intensity  of  this  delight  varying  according  to  the 
social  standing,  youth,  and  beauty  of  their  com- 
panion; while  other  men  were  satisfied  to  plant 
themselves  in  a  narrow  passage  between  two 
rooms,  and  look  down  searchingly  upon  the  bare 
shoulders  and  the  palpitations  of  the  women  who 
were  sometimes  forced  to  pause  there. 

"This  is  our  Olympus,"  said  a  dapper  old  gen- 
tleman to  Gonnelli,  in  a  nasal  voice,  as  four  or 
five  ladies  passed,  the  last  in  a  very  low  gown. 
Bessanesi,  who  was  standing  behind  Gonnelli, 
murmured :  "  More  like  Mount  Ossa,  I  should  say !" 

"Pardon  me,  what  did  you  say?"  the  nasal 
voice  inquired. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing!" 

All  the  married  women,  save  a  few  who  were 
dissatisfied  with  their  toilettes,  were  highly  de- 
lighted with  the  assembly,  but  the  severity  and 
solemnity  of  their  bearing  betrayed  the  fact  that 
they  were  still  greatly  preoccupied  by  their  trains, 
their  jewels,  and  the  importance  of  the  event  in 
which  they  were  participating.  The  girls,  on 
the  other  hand,  were  in  high  spirits,  because  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  269 

"foster-brother"  had  informed  some  of  them  that 
a  canvas  had  been  stretched  upon  the  floor  of  the 
lecture-room,  and  that  a  piano  had  been  placed 
there,  and  also  because,  among  the  probable 
partners,  there  were  some  youthful  cavalrymen 
who  had  never  been  seen  in  society  before  that 
night.  A  group  of  girls  were  busily  commenting 
upon  this  news  in  the  Ariosto  room  when  an 
elderly  gallant,  happening  to  pass  that  way, 
spread  his  arms  and  boldly  clasped  two  slender 
waists,  whose  owners  started  violently  as  the  man's 
nose  appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  group. 

"Well,  well,  my  pretty  dears!  Are  we  good 
little  girls?  Pious  little  girls?  How  many  Ave 
Marias  have  we  said  this  evening?"  and  he  darted 
off  laughing,  after  a  tap  on  the  cheek  from  the 
eldest  damsel's  fan. 

The  girls  resumed  their  discussion  of  the  officers, 
each  producing  her  bit  of  information,  and  the 
young  men  were  carefully  appraised  with  regard 
to  name,  titles,  money,  age,  wit,  habits,  and 
weight.  The  championship  in  weight  had  long 
been  held  by  Captain  X —  -  with  his  ninety- 
three  kilos,  but  now  there  was  Lieutenant  Y—  — , 
who  weighed  ninety-five  kilos.  It  was  a  pity, 
for  this  excess  was  the  lieutenant's  sole  defect. 
Jeanne  had  snatched  the  Gonnellina  from  the 
corner  of  the  east  terrace,  where  she  was  standing 
with  Signorina  Bertha  and  Destemps,  and  had 
carried  her  off  to  the  group  of  young  girls,  hoping 
she  might  make  friends  with  them.  But  Eleonora, 


270  The  Sinner 

who  had  been  brought  here  against  her  will,  was 
neither  lively  nor  especially  gracious,  and  for  this 
reason  the  title  "Ramrod  number  one!"  was 
promptly  and  politely  bestowed  upon  her.  Jeanne 
herself  played  her  part  with  consummate  art, 
granting  but  little  of  her  time  to  those  who  desired 
her  most,  apologising  to  her  personal  friends  for 
her  necessary  neglect  of  them,  lavishing  attentions 
upon  the  more  humble  guests  and  upon  those 
with  whom  she  was  but  slightly  acquainted, 
arranging  suitable  conversations  for  Professor 
Dane  and  Donna  Laura,  and  leaving  Bice,  Des- 
temps,  Bertha,  Bessanesi,  and  Gonnelli  to  their 
own  devices. 

Carlino  had  been  obliged  to  alter  the  programme 
for  the  evening.  The  lecture  was  made  to  yield 
precedence  to  the  music,  because  Maestro  Bra- 
gozz.o,  who  scented  a  dance,  had  declared  that  he 
would  not  play  the  one  act  of  his  unpublished 
opera  he  had  promised  them,  after  the  lecture, 
when  every  one  would  be  impatient  for  the  ball 
to  begin.  There  \vas,  moreover,  no  necessity  of 
going  outside  the  villa  for  the  music,  as  the 
Maestro  preferred  the  little  hall  to  the  large  one 
in  the  Foresteria;  he  preferred  a  small  but  attentive 
audience. 

"What  can  one  expect?"  said  he  to  the  fas- 
tidious Countess.  "There  are,  let  us  say,  one 
hundred  people  assembled  here.  Of  fifty  men 
who  will  applaud  my  performance,  twenty  will 
be  likely  to  say  to  me  when  we  get  outside :  '  Fine 


Numina,  non  Nomina  271 

music,  that,  Maestro,  but  rather  too  long,  rather 
too  long!'  Twenty  more — and  these  are  my 
good  friends — will  say:  ' Fiol  de  na  pipa!  You 
son  of  a  pipe,  you!  We  thought  you  would  never 
leave  off ! '  Five  more  will  ask  me  if  I  have  been 
playing  Wagner  or  La  Traviata — it  is  about  the 
same  thing  to  them.  I  shall  be  glad  the  other 
five  listened  to  me.  As  to  the  ladies,  I  am  willing 
to  except  you  yourself,  Signora  De  Altes,  our 
hostess  also  perhaps,  but  of  this  I  am  not  sure, 
and  three  or  four  of  the  fifteen  pupils  of  mine  I 
see  here;  let  us  say  ten  in  all,  and  that  is  putting 
it  high ;  but  the  other  forty — even  had  I  the  power 
to  make  the  piano  sing  and  weep  in  turn — will 
delight  me  with  the  sight  of  forty  fans  swaying 
regularly  from  beginning  to  end  of  the  perform- 
ance, like  so  many  metronomes.  Some  damsel 
may  even  dare  to  say  to  me,  as  has  happened 
before  when  I  have  been  playing  Beethoven, 
Schumann,  or  Mendelssohn:  'Bravo,  Maestro! 
But  now  do  play  us  something  pretty!' 

"It  is  the  same  the  world  over,  my  friend," 
said  the  Countess,  laughing. 

While  he  was  playing — and,  contrary  to  his 
wish,  the  little  room  was  crowded,  while  two  long 
lines  of  listeners  stretched  beyond  the  open  doors 
— the  facetious  cavalier  was  describing  certain 
scenes  which  had  taken  place  at  Casa  Scremin,  to 
a  small  group  of  men  and  women  assembled  in  a 
corner  of  the  east  terrace.  His  information  was 


272  The  Sinner 

derived  from  his  own  parlour-maid,  whose  sister 
had  married  the  son  of  Federico,  the  Scremins' 
footman.  Well  then,  scene  number  one!  Actors: 
Marchese  Zaneto,  Marchesa  Nene,  Don  Giuseppe 
Flores  and  a  mouse.  Don  Giuseppe  arrives  from 
his  villa,  in  a  carriage.  He  inquires  for  the  Mar- 
chese, is  ushered  into  the  presence  by  Federico, 
who  is  ordered  to  admit  no  one  else.  The  Mar- 
chesa rings  the  bell.  Who  has  come?  Don 
Giuseppe  Flores.  Where  is  he?  In  the  study 
with  the  master.  Five  minutes  elapse.  The 
Marchesa  leaves  her  room  and  wanders  restlessly 
about  the  house.  At  last  she  brings  up,  frowning 
and  anxious,  at  one  of  the  two  doors  of  the  Mar- 
chese's  study.  What  can  be  going  on  ?  Federico 
finds  himself — quite  by  accident,  of  course — at 
the  other  door.  He  hears  Don  Giuseppe's  voice, 
but  cannot  understand  what  he  is  saying.  Zaneto 
is  whining.  Federico — again  quite  by  accident 
— applies  his  eye  to  the  keyhole,  and  sees  his 
mistress  enter,  all  smiles  and  amiability.  Pre- 
cisely at  this  moment  the  master  starts  suddenly 
from  his  chair,  and  pulls  the  bell  violently,  his 
gaze  riveted  upon  something  in  one  corner  of  the 
study.  Federico  goes  round  to  the  other  door, 
and  enters  behind  his  mistress.  "Did  the  Signor 
Marchese  ring?"  " There  is  a  mouse  over  there! " 
The  mistress,  wrho  fears  naught  but  the  Almighty 
and  mice,  turns  her  back  and  flees.  "A  mouse, 
Signor?"  Federico  exclaims.  "Yes,  indeed!  A 
mouse,  a  mouse!"  The  Marchese,  trembling 


Numina,  non  Nomina  273 

violently,  barricades  himself  behind  his  chair. 
"  Pray  excuse  this  interruption,  Don  Giuseppe. 
Pray  excuse  it!"  Don  Giuseppe  is  dumb  with 
astonishment  at  seeing  so  much  fuss  made  about 
a  mouse.  Federico  cannot  find  the  mouse.  The 
Marchese  is  not  satisfied  and  wishes  the  search 
to  continue.  "Pray  excuse  me!  Pray  excuse 
me,  Don  Giuseppe!  I  am  so  sorry!"  And  he 
repeats  his  "  I  am  sorry!"  so  often,  that  poor  Don 
Giuseppe  ends  by  slowly  leaving  the  room.  He 
finds  the  Marchesa  in  the  anteroom  and  they 
converse  together. 

As  the  tale  reached  this  mild  climax  the  pas- 
sionate ravings  of  Bragozzo's  heroes  and  heroines 
became  more  violent  than  ever,  and  a  stout 
gentleman  came  out  to  the  terrace  and  joined  the 
group.  "I  am  completely  deafened!"  said  he. 
Then  he  announced  that  Zaneto  Scremin  had 
just  arrived  in  a  tail-coat  dating  from  the  year 
'48,  and  a  white  cravat  that  looked  like  a  table- 
napkin. 

Zaneto's  arrival  whetted  the  appetites  of  the 
assembled  listeners,  and  the  story  was  resumed. 
What  had  passed  between  the  Marchesa  and  Don 
Giuseppe  was  not  known,  but  it  was  certain  that 
on  taking  leave  of  the  priest  the  old  lady  had  said 
with  a  sigh:  "Of  course  there  must  be  mice,  I 
suppose!"  in  excuse,  as  it  were,  of  the  weakness 
the  Almighty  had  exhibited  when  He  invented 
those  animals.  As  to  the  real  matter  in  hand  .  .  . 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  said  the  gentleman  who 

18 


274  The  Sinner 

had  been  deafened.  And  indeed  he  proved  to  be 
very  well  informed  on  the  subject.  In  order  to 
secure  his  nomination  as  senator  Zaneto  must 
regulate  his  affairs,  and  cancel  his  many  small 
debts  by  raising  a  large  loan,  thus  diminishing 
the  amount  of  interest  as  well  as  stopping  many 
chattering  mouths,  and  freeing  himself  from  the 
scrutiny  of  his  creditors'  watchful  eyes.  He  had 
not  been  able  to  arrange  with  the  loan  department 
of  the  Milan  Savings  Bank,  because  the  security 
offered  was  not  sufficient.  Zaneto's  solicitor  had 
then  proposed  the  affair  to  Carlo  Dessalle,  asking 
for  a  loan  of  seven-hundred-thousand  lire  at  four 
per  cent.  At  the  time,  however,  Dessalle  had  not 
sufficient  unemployed  capital,  and,  at  any  rate, 
he  demanded  four  and  a  half  per  cent.  The 
Marchesa  got  wind  of  this  transaction,  and  rather 
than  allow  her  husband  to  bind  himself  to  the 
Dessalles,  had  decided  to  make  a  sacrifice,  and 
give  him  the  greater  part  of  her  own  fortune,  but 
only  on  condition  that  he  should  inform  those 
in  authority  that  he  no  longer  aspired  to  the 
Senate,  and  that  the  family  should  remove  to 
Brescia,  and  reside  quietly  there  with  the  son- 
in-law.  Don  Giuseppe  had  been  the  Marchesa's 
ambassador.  "But  Zaneto  stood  his  ground, 
and  between  him  and  the  mouse  the  plan  was 
frustrated."  In  the  local  dialect  sorzo  stands 
equally  for  a  mouse  and  for  a  very  astute  individ- 
ual, and  upon  this  philological  basis  the  facetious 
cavalier  rested  the  not  unlikely  hypothesis  that 


Numina,  non  Nomina  275 

when  he  had  cried  "  un  sorzo!"  the  worthy  Zaneto 
had  intended  to  allude,  not  to  that  harmless 
animal,  but  to  himself. 

Meanwhile  Jeanne  had  presented  the  Marchese 
to  Donna  Laura,  and  had  skilfully  turned  their 
faces  towards  the  west  terrace,  where  they  would 
be  able  to  converse  undisturbed.  The  clock  at 
the  Sanctuary  was  just  striking  half-past  ten. 
Jeanne  glided  into  the  dining-room,  stationed 
herself  at  an  open  window  overlooking  the  Valley 
of  Silence,  and  contemplated  the  gloomy  hills 
and  heavy,  black  clouds,  trying  to  picture  to 
herself  that  distant  terrace,  high  above  the  dark 
waters,  to  picture  the  dead  passion-flower  vine, 
and  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  great  bells.  She 
strove  to  feel  the  beating  of  that  heart,  that  was 
so  dear  to  her,  that  was  so  full  of  memories,  of 
regrets,  of  fears,  of  vague  longings,  all  tending 
to  snatch  it  from  her.  Her  spirit  sped  to  his  side, 
but,  conscious  that  she  dare  not  press  him  in  her 
arms  for  fear  of  arousing  his  displeasure,  a  wave 
of  grief  swept  over  her  that  left  her  half  fainting, 
and  she  turned  from  the  window. 

As  she  did  so  she  was  confronted  by  Bassanelli. 
"Am  I  indiscreet?"  said  he.  "I  thought  you 
might  perhaps  have  ears  and  eyes  for  your  old 
friends  to-night.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Jeanne  did  not  resent  the  allusion  to  Maironi's 
absence,  for  she  had  long  since  grown  accustomed 
to  poor  Bassanelli's  outbursts  of  jealousy,  and, 


276  The  Sinner 

moreover,  she  not  only  respected  him,  but  was 
really  fond  of  him. 

"And  how  about  my  guests?"  said  she. 

"Bragozzo  is  taking  care  of  them,"  Bassanelli 
replied.  "Listen  to  what  I  have  to  tell  you. 
The  day  before  yesterday,  in  Venice,  I  met  your 
husband. " 

Jeanne  started  with  a  gesture  of  passionate 
scorn.  "Well,"  said  she.  "And  what  is  that 
to  me?" 

Bassanelli  had  not  expected  she  would  care 
much,  but  to  tell  the  truth,  the  man  had  aroused 
his  pity.  He  was  in  wretched  health,  and  seemed 
completely  changed.  He  was  conscious  of  the 
foulness  of  his  past  life,  and  he  was  suffering, 
suffering  deeply,  and  his  torment  was  enhanced 
by  certain  rumours  which  had  reached  him. 

"What  rumours?" 

"Alas!  You  know  well  enough,  my  dear 
girl!" 

"  Bassanelli,  did  you  come  here  on  purpose  to 
tell  me  this?"  cried  Jeanne  indignantly. 

"  No,  but  I  must  say  the  absence  of  a  certain 
person  is  far  too  clearly  announced  by  your  ex- 
pression this  evening,  and  I  don't  approve  of  your 
hanging  about  open  windows  and  sighing!" 

"Bassanelli,  I  have  heretofore  allowed  you  to 
hector  me  on  this  point  because  you  are  such  an 
old  friend,  but  have  a  care  not  to  make  me  regret 
my  forbearance.  It  is,  moreover,  untrue  that  my 
expression  betrays  me.  My  expression  reveals 


Numina,  non  Nomina  277 

nothing.  And,  after  all,  what  if  it  did?  I  do  no 
wrong!" 

Bassanelli,  his  face  pale,  gazed  steadily  and 
silently  into  her  eyes  for  an  instant.  Then  he 
grasped  her  wrist  roughly,  and  raised  her  arm. 

"You  do  no  wrong?"  said  he.  "Listen!  I 
have  always  been  an  ass,  ever  since  the  time  when 
I  half  starved  myself  and  got  myself  crippled  for 
love  of  this  ungrateful  country  of  ours!  I  am  an 
ass  at  the  present  moment,  and  I  know  the 
reason  why ;  but  I  swear  to  you  that  when  I  think 
of  poor  Franco  Maironi,  of  his  father,  that  man 
whose  heart  was  as  bold  as  a  lion's  but — God 
knows! — as  pure  as  a  saint's;  when  I  think  of 
him,  I  say,  and  of  what  he  would  suffer  if  he  could 
know,  could  see,  I  had  rather  be  the  ass  I  am 
than  you!" 

As  he  pronounced  the  last  words  he  gave  the 
imprisoned  wrist  a  shake,  and  then  cast  it  from 
him.  At  the  same  instant  they  heard  the  loud 
outburst  of  applause  that  greeted  the  last  bars 
of  Bragozzo's  opera. 

"Hush!"  cried  Jeanne,  terrified,  and  almost 
as  pale  as  Bassanelli  himself.  "You  are  simply 
jealous  and  cruel,  and  nothing  else!" 

She  hastened  to  the  Iphigenia  room,  and  he 
followed  quivering  with  passion,  and  at  once  glad 
and  sorry  that  he  had  unburthened  himself. 

Donna  Laura  and  Marchese  Scremin  were  still 
conversing  on  one  terrace  when  all  the  guests 
poured  out  in  couples  upon  the  other,  and  went 


278  The  Sinner 

down  the  steps  into  the  garden,  disappearing  in 
the  direction  of  the  light  that  streamed  from  the 
door  of  the  Foresteria.  A  few  aristocratic  couples 
stepped  aside  and  presently  formed  a  group  by 
themselves,  this  having  been  prearranged,  in 
order  that  they  might  choose  their  places  in  the 
hall,  apart  from  the  common  herd.  Certain 
indignant,  feminine  whisperings  in  confirmation  of 
this  manoeuvre  at  once  began  to  circulate  among 
the  shadows.  Whisperings  were  also  circulating 
among  those  forming  the  select  group :  comments 
upon  Maironi's  absence,  upon  the  toilettes  of  the 
two  Florentine  gentlewomen,  which  were  pro- 
nounced so  plain  as  to  be  almost  insulting.  One 
lady,  who  had  been  seated  near  the  door  of  the 
music-room,  haol  contrived  to  fan  herself  with 
her  right  hand,  while  with  her  left  she  cautiously 
felt  the  stuffs  of  all  the  toilettes  that  passed,  and 
she  was  outraged  by  the  avarice  of  some  of  her 
friends.  Another  took  great  delight  in  remarking 
to  Jeanne's  two  fanatical  female  admirers,  that 
Maironi's  absence  made  her  look  positively  ugly, 
and  this  in  order  that  they  might  not  be  deceived 
concerning  the  true  state  of  their  idol's  affections. 
Jeanne  was  the  last  to  enter  the  lecture-hall 
with  Dane,  whom  a  local  wit  had  already  christ- 
ened pretoides  brachyfera,  in  reference  to  the 
worldly  cut  of  his  trousers  and  the  femininity  of 
his  beardless  face.  As  they  took  their  places, 
Carlino,  standing  beside  the  sheet  that  had  been 
prepared  for  the  projections,  was  explaining  to  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  279 

audience  that  his  discourse,  which  was  of  a  fanciful 
nature,  demanded  a  musical  introduction.  He 
begged  they  would  refrain  from  applauding  the 
music,  although  it  was  by  a  great  master  and 
would  be  splendidly  executed.  At  a  given  mo- 
ment all  the  electric  lights  went  out,  and  banks 
of  clouds  illumined  by  pale  moonlight  began  to 
appear  on  the  sheet,  while  a  small  and  invisible 
orchestra  played  the  first  bars  of  Mendels- 
sohn's Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  Donna  Bice, 
good-natured  Signora  Colomba  Raselli,  the  Gon- 
nellina,  her  father,  Dane,  Bessanesi,  and  Maestro 
Bragozzo  cried,  "Oh!"  Destemps  said,  "Well 
done!"  in  a  loud  voice,  but  all  the  others,  both 
men  and  women,  sat  unmoved,  with  the  air  of 
those  who  are  accustomed  to  the  best  and  are 
hard  to  please. 

As  soon  as  the  music  ceased  the  dark  clouds 
trembled  and  vanished.  A  few  electric  lights 
shed  a  pale  twilight,  and  Carlino  mounted  a  small 
tribune  which  stretched  across  the  corner  of  the 
hall  between  the  sheet  and  the  open  door  of  the 
room  where  the  musicians  were  concealed,  which 
room  he  had  christened  the  "China  of  Monsters" 
in  reference  to  its  Tiepolesque  decoration. 

"A  regular  Punch  and  Judy  box!"  whispered 
the  sour  man. 

"The  Gate  of  Dreams,"  Carlino  began,  without 
emphasis,  and  with  that  nervous,  Tuscan  accent 
of  his  which  in  itself  was  sufficient  to  convey  to 
these  Venetian  ears  a  sense  of  the  strange  and 


280  The  Sinner 

magical.  "Gate  of  the  Sphinxes,  Jauna  Clara! 
Appear!" 

The  lights  went  out,  and  upon  the  sheet  there 
first  trembled  and  then  appeared  distinctly  the 
picture  of  a  fine  gateway  of  the  late  Quattrocento. 
Upon  the  base  of  the  pilaster  on  the  right  were 
inscribed  the  words: 

JAUNA  CLARA 

Some  one  recognised  the  motto  and  the  sphinxes 
and  murmured  the  name  of  a  palace  in  the 
city. 

"Oh,  thou  art  worthy  to  grace  the  palace  of 
Atlantis,"  Carlino  went  on;  "I  choose  thee  for  my 
introduction.  Thy  blood-red  and  still  formless 
members  were  wrenched  from  the  bowels  of  some 
wild  mountain  by  the  strength  of  mighty  arms; 
and,  meanwhile,  thy  pure  soul  flashed  in  the  soul 
of  the  ancient  artificer  like  a  glowing  spark,  until 
at  last,  through  the  laborious  conjunction  of 
spirit  and  stone,  thy  arch  was  slowly  rounded 
and  shaped,  thy  arch  which  is  a  symbol  of  a  full 
and  rich  life,  of  the  path  of  beauty  through  time, 
of  hope  in  the  heart  of  the  wise." 

"  Look  at  your  watch, "  grumbled  the  sour  man 
to  his  neighbour.  "  Let  us  see  how  long  it  takes 
him  to  get  through  this  gate!" 

"And  even  in  our  own  generation,"  Carlino's 
voice  continued  in  the  shadow,  "the  crowds  of 
those  who  pass  thee  on  the  day  sacred  to  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  281 

thundering  Jove,  pause  to  bestow  a  smile  of  ap- 
proval upon  thee,  ere  they  enter  thy  portals  and 
proceed  to  burn  incense  before  the  goddess  whom 
thou  concealest. " 

Here  the  gateway  trembled  and  disappeared. 
Amidst  an  outburst  of  "ohs, "  of  laughter,  and  of 
applause,  there  flashed  in  its  place  the  bold  profile, 
the  great,  dark  eyes,  the  massive  but  exquisite 
shoulders  of  a  lady  who  was  present  in  the  audi- 
ence. "She  looks  rather  like  Donna  Laura," 
said  Professor  Dane.  Jeanne  started.  Were 
Donna  Laura  and  Marchese  Scremin  in  the  room 
or  had  they  been  forgotten  on  the  terrace?  While 
the  applause  and  laughter  continued,  while  the 
lady  was  parrying  the  congratulations  of  her 
friends,  and  Carlino  was  waiting  to  resume  his 
far-fetched  simile  between  the  ornate  gateway 
and  the  ornate  introduction  to  a  romantic  fable, 
Jeanne  slipped  quickly  from  the  room,  and  met 
Donna  Laura  in  the  garden,  alone.  The  Marchese 
(Goodness!  What  a  poor  figure  of  a  senator!) 
had  departed,  leaving  many  apologies  behind  him. 
Well?  Well,  Scremin  had  solemnly  undertaken 
to  make  his  son-in-law  work  for  the  Brescia 
elections.  Upon  hearing  this  Jeanne  uttered  a 
gentle  and  doubtful  "Hm!"  and  Donna  Laura 
made  bold  to  say,  smilingly:  "  It  might  he  done  at 
once,  if  you  would  only  say  the  word!"  Perhaps 
the  surrounding  darkness  gave  her  courage  to 
venture  thus  far. 

"Did  Scremin  tell  you  so?"  said  Jeanne. 


282  The  Sinner 

"No,  but  I  believe  so." 

"Well,  then  it  is  false!" 

And  in  making  this  statement  Jeanne  was 
convinced  of  its  truth. 

"  Did  he  mention  his  financial  embarrassments 
to  you?"  she  added. 

"No.     But  I  mentioned  them  to  him!" 

"You  never  did?" 

But  then,  Donna  Laura  was  famous  for  her 
monitory  boldness,  and  her  ruthless  audacity. 

"  When  the  end  we  have  in  view  is  extraordinary, 
ordinary  considerations  must  be  disregarded," 
said  she. 

During  her  conversation  with  the  Marchese 
she  had  alluded  to  certain  difficulties  which  had 
grouped  themselves  around  his  name,  difficulties 
of  a  very  positive  nature,  and  caused  by  rumours 
which,  though  certainly  false,  it  was,  nevertheless, 
imperative  to  silence  without  delay.  The  Mar- 
chese had  exhibited  great  embarrassment,  and 
had  replied  in  confused  and  disconnected  language 
intended  to  convey  the  information  that  certain 
transactions  he  had  had  with  the  Dessalles  must 
have  convinced  them  of  the  solidity  of  his  financial 
position,  and  that  to  this  they  would  surely  be 
willing  to  testify. 

"Is  that  true?"  asked  Donna  Laura. 

Jeanne  said  she  believed  her  brother  had  indeed 
been  asked  to  advance  a  large  sum  of  money,  that 
the  security  offered  had  been  considered  sufficient 
although  not  particularly  generous,  but  that  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  283 

contracting  parties  had  failed  to  come  to  terms 
on  the  question  of  interest. 

"Well,"  said  Donna  Laura,  "he  has  requested 
me  to  persuade  the  Minister  to  seek  information 
from  the  Prefect  on  this  point,  and  he  wishes  you 
to  speak  to  the  Prefect.  However,"  she  added, 
"you  are,  of  course,  aware  that  I  take  but  little 
interest  in  this  matter.  What  interests  me  is  the 
Brescia  campaign." 

Jeanne  did  not  answer.  Her  friend  was  con- 
scious of  the  iciness  of  that  silence  and  of  the  value 
of  the  fleeting  moment. 

"  Excuse  me, "  said  she,  "but  let  us  discuss  this 
matter  openly.  I  have  no  desire  to  pry  into  your 
affairs,  but,  after  all,  I  really  think  you  should 
help  me!" 

"Help  you  still  further?" 

"  Yes,  still  further.  This  time  he  will  be  making 
himself  known  in  the  borough  by  working  for 
some  one  else.  Another  time  he  can  work  for 
himself,  and  we  will  help  him." 

This  inconsiderate  language  and  her  tone  of 
patronage  irritated  Jeanne. 

"  I*beg  your  pardon, "  said  she,"  but  you  are 
labouring  under  a  great  mistake,  and  all  this  talk 
is  to  no  purpose.  Come,  I  must  go  back  to  the 
hall." 

Donna  Laura,  greatly  disappointed,  thought  to 
herself:  "Can  they  have  quarrelled?"  And  she 
determined  to  find  out  more  about  the  matter 
that  same  night. 


284  The    Sinner 

Meanwhile  Carlino  was  enjoying  an  ever  in- 
creasing success.  He  had  spun  the  most  absurd 
tale,  and  round  the  sour  man's  mouth  a  violent 
contest  was  going  on  between  the  orbicular 
muscle,  the  buccinator,  and  the  risibles.  The 
slides  took  the  audience  by  storm,  and  the  subject 
of  the  fable  was  as  follows.  A  very  handsome 
and  popular  girl  belonging  to  one  of  the  best 
families,  who  was  really  engaged  to  a  foreigner, 
and  was  present  at  the  lecture,  figured  as  already 
married  and  dwelling  in  a  superb  castle  on  the 
Rhine,  near  the  Lorelei's  rock.  Her  happiness  was 
however,  somewhat  marred  by  the  memory  of 
her  far-away  home,  and  the  Lorelei,  moved  to 
pity  by  her  gentle  sighing,  made  her  a  present  of 
the  lofty  and  ancient  tower — the  Town  Tower- 
in  whose  shadow  she  was  born,  and  caused  it  to  be 
set  up  in  her  garden.  There  followed  an  amus- 
ing description  of  the  citizens'  despair  at  the  loss 
of  their  tower,  and,  regardless  of  the  anachronism, 
Maironi  appeared  upon  the  sheet  girt  with  the 
Sindaco's  scarf,  and  in  the  act  of  seeking  for  the 
lost  edifice  by  the  light  of  a  lantern.  Jeanne  was 
distressed  by  this  apparition,  at  which  every  one 
else  laughed  heartily,  and  also  by  the  fact  that 
Carlino  had  not  mentioned  it,  although  he  had 
previously  related  the  fable  to  her.  Then  there 
was  a  slide  representing  the  arrest  of  an  enor- 
mously tall  man,  accused  of  having  swallowed  the 
tower.  Another,  who  had  written  the  "  History 
of  the  Town  Tower,  with  Notes, "  was  seen  fainting 


Numina,  non  Nomina  285 

away,  while  several  patricians — all  friends  of 
Carlino's — were  represented  in  the  act  of  com- 
mitting suicide  by  jumping  head-foremost  into 
the  yawning  chasm  where  the  pride  of  the  city 
had  once  stood.  A  council  of  fairies,  the  town's 
protectresses,  followed  this  dramatic  episode. 
Never  once  in  the  course  of  his  running  comments 
on  the  illustrations,  did  the  lecturer  pronounce 
a  name,  thus  remaining  faithful  to  the  title  he 
had  chosen  for  his  strange  rigmarole.  But  the 
names  were  proclaimed  by  the  audience  upon 
the  appearance  of  the  different  personages.  The 
Lorelei  herself  was  a  fine-looking  woman  from 
Rolandseck,  who,  upon  her  marriage,  had  come 
to  dwell  in  the  city  of  the  tower.  Both  Carlino's 
gallantry  and  tact  were  especially  apparent  in  the 
description  by  word  and  picture  of  the  council 
of  fairies,  in  which  the  magical  powers  were 
attributed  to  the  handsomest  and  most  illustrious 
ladies  of  the  town,  who,  described  one  by  one,  in 
prolix  but  enigmatical  language,  appeared  upon 
the  sheet  in  forms  that  were  equally  enigmatical, 
and  with  partially  or  completely  veiled  faces. 
These  apparitions  would  quickly  disappear  in  a 
rapid  flash,  and  never,  in  spite  of  the  entreaties 
of  the  audience,  were  the  illustrations  repeated. 
Of  the  thirty-six  ladies  present,  at  least  thirty-five 
were  secretly  convinced  that  they  were  among 
the  fairies;  even  the  elderly  dames,  who  placed 
their  trust  in  their  titles  and  palaces,  in  the 
lecturer's  gallant  courtesy,  and  in  those  discreet 


286  The   Sinner 

veils.  The  council  of  the  fairies  was  supposed 
to  take  place  in  the  palace  of  the  Jauna  Clara, 
and  by  their  magic  they  were  able  to  spirit  the 
tower  home  again  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 
bringing  the  young  couple  with  it,  to  dwell  in  its 
shadow,  taking  the  Lorelei  herself  prisoner,  and 
then  graciously  adopting  her  as  their  companion 
and  sister.  The  tale  and  the  slides  ended  in  a 
mad  dance  of  all  the  citizens  round  the  reinstated 
tower,  the  mayor,  the  tall  man,  the  historian,  and 
even  the  patrician  suicides  whirling  gaily  with 
the  crowd.  A  hymn  in  praise  of  the  charming 
and  hospitable  city,  the  favourite  haunt  of  genius 
and  grace,  brought  the  lecture  to  a  merry  close. 
The  little  orchestra  played  a  popular  tune,  taking 
it  in  such  slow  time  as  to  render  it  not  only  in- 
tensely solemn,  but  at  first,  indeed,  almost  un- 
recognisable,while  upon  the  sheet  there  appeared 
the  likeness  of  Carlino  himself,  bending  respect- 
fully towards  the  audience,  his  arms  crossed  and  a 
small  tower  pressed  to  his  breast.  Suddenly 
all  the  lights  blazed  brightly  forth,  as  the  guests 
broke  into  deafening  applause. 

The  hall  was  quickly  cleared  for  dancing,  and 
a  few  were  already  promenading  there,  but  most 
of  the  guests  were  smoking  cigarettes  or  eating 
ices  in  the  crowded  rooms  overlooking  the  Valley 
of  Silence.  These  apartments  also  contained 
frescoes  in  Tiepolo's  most  fantastic  style,  and 
each  had  been  christened  by  Carlino  according 
to  the  subject  of  its  decorations.  There  was  the 


Numina,  non  Nomina  287 

China  of  Monsters,  the  Room  of  the  Georgics,  the 
Hall  of  Gallantry,  Olympus,  the  Hall  of  Darwin, 
and  the  Chamber  of  Anacreon.  The  success  of 
the  lecture  had  been  such  that  only  the  young 
girls  seemed  anxious  for  the  dancing  to  begin,  and 
there  was  a  great  uproar  going  on  around  Carlino 
and  those  fairies  whose  identity  had  been  es- 
tablished beyond  a  doubt. 

Donna  Laura  took  the  arm  of  one  of  these,  a 
little,  restless,  nervous  fairy,  who  had  been  at 
school  with  her  at  Poggio  Imperiale,  and,  with 
the  pretext  of  wishing  to  examine  the  work  of 
Tiepolo,  allowed  herself  to  be  conducted  to  the 
Chamber  of  Anacreon,  that  gem  of  a  room  con- 
taining the  cherubs,  last  on  the  east,  and  now 
completely  deserted.  Here  Donna  Laura  at  once 
began  questioning  her  friend  about  the  intimacy 
between  Jeanne  and  Maironi. 

"Why,  there  is  nothing  more  said  about  it!" 
said  the  flippant  fairy,  sparkling  with  delight  at 
having  been  able  to  show  herself  arm  in  arm  with 
the  great  lady.  "  Do  you  ask  because  you  do  not 
see  him  here?  He  is  at  Brescia,  on  business.  It 
is  an  accepted  fact,  you  know,  a  sort  of  marriage. 
People  do  say  that  she  might  sometimes  be  a  little 
more  careful,  might  act  more  as  he  does — he  is 
perfect — but,  after  all,  we  must  really  consider 
their  position.  ...  A  husband  without  a  wife 
...  a  wife  without  a  husband  .  .  .  and  it  is  not 
their  fault,  either.  .  .  .  Then  they  are  both 
young,  and — let  us  be  quite  honest,  which  it  is  so 


288  The  Sinner 

difficult  to  be! — it  is  most  fortunate  that  they 
have  happened  to  fall  in  love  with  each  other, 
instead  of  spoiling  other  unions!  Every  one 
who  is  truly  moral  without  being  hypocritical 
must  agree  with  me!  There  are  some  who  blame 
Dessalle,  and  say  he  should  do  things,  or  say 
things!  Oh,  he  is  such  a  delightful  fellow,  Des- 
salle! So  perfectly  delightful!  But  the  people 
here  are  very  proper  and  pedantic.  You  have 
no  idea  how  severe  they  are!  However,  they  are 
by  no  means  always  just;  they  will  forgive  one 
person  everything  and  another  person  nothing!" 

In  speaking  thus  she  seemed  to  insinuate  half 
resentfully,  half  complacently,  that  she  herself 
had  experienced  both  this  severity  and  this  in- 
justice. She  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  who  gladly 
stretch  out  their  hand  towards  the  forbidden 
fruit,  but  who,  at  the  moment  of  grasping  it, 
feel  themselves — albeit  with  a  shade  of  regret — 
more  honest  than  they  had  believed,  and  the  hand 
is  withdrawn. 

The  ball  was  at  its  height;  the  "foster-brother" 
had  disgraced  himself  by  upsetting  a  quadrille, 
and  a  group  of  sedate  men,  town  councillors 
belonging  to  the  Liberal  party,  were  smoking 
and  discussing  the  coming  elections  on  the  terrace 
near  the  Chamber  of  Anacreon.  A  telegram  from 
the  deputy  had  just  announced  to  them  the 
dissolution  of  the  Council. 

Donna  Bice  had  discovered  an  old  friend  in  the 
person  of  the  wife  of  Alberto  D'Ambiveri,  a  major 


Numina,  non  Nomina  289 

of  artillery.  This  young  matron,  a  Roman  by 
birth,  had  a  kind  heart,  but  a  terrible  tongue  in 
her  lighter  moments.  Seated  upon  a  Chinese 
divan  beside  Bice,  she  had  a  nickname  or  a  mis- 
chievous comment  for  every  one  of  the  women 
and  for  many  of  the  men  who  passed  them  on 
their  way  to  the  ball-room.  Of  course  Bice  knew 
no  one,  and  Signora  D'Ambiveri  was  only  too 
happy  to  present  them  to  her,  in  an  undertone. 
"  Miss  .  .  .  Turnip — Count  .  .  .  Pompous  Gan- 
der— Miss  .  .  .  Prunes  and  Prisms,  look,  but  don't 
handle — Countess  .  .  .  Propriety,  look,  and  handle 
if  you  like — Signora  .  .  .  Sensibility,  look  and 
handle  both — Countess  .  .  .  Blood  Royal,  Em- 
press of  Nowhere — Lieutenant  .  .  .  Money  Gone 
—Master  and  Miss  .  .  .  Squirrel — Madame  .  .  . 
Virtue  Personified."  When  Destemps  passed 
with  their  hostess  upon  his  arm,  she  could  not 
refrain  from  murmuring:  "All  hail!  to  Piero's 
successor!"  Donna  Bice  smiled  knowingly,  and 
hastened  to  inquire  about  Maironi.  Was  he 
really  so  fascinating? 

"He  is  not  a  favourite  here,"  said  Signora 
D'Ambiveri.  "They  think  him  too  serious- 
minded.  This  love  affair  has  indeed  given  many 
a  better  opinion  of  him,  but  it  is  not  enough. 
He  would  do  well  to  drop  Jeanne  now,  and  take 
some  one  else. " 

"Would  you  like  to  be  that  some  one?" 
"I?     What   an   idea!     Poor   Alberto!     But   I 
can  quite  understand  Jeanne's  weakness  for  him. 


29°  The   Sinner 

For  you  must  know  that  Maironi  is  most 
distinguished  in  appearance,  with  out  being  hand- 
some; he  dresses  well,  without  being  a  fashion- 
plate;  and  I  don't  believe  he  is  the  sort  of  man 
to  make  you  a  declaration  before  he  has  known  you 
two  hours.  Add  to  all  this  that  this  man — con- 
sidering the  stick  of  a  wife  he  had,  and  the  life  he 
has  led — must  have  lavished  perfect  treasures 
of  untarnished  passion  upon  Jeanne.  In  a  word, 
I  understand  Jeanne  perfectly,  and  pray  don't 
make  me  say  anything  more  that  is  foolish!" 


IV 


A  sudden  peal  of  thunder  brought  the  ball  to 
an  abrupt  close.  In  vain  Bertha  Rothenbaum, 
with  all  the  assurance  of  the  good-natured  and 
experienced  old  maid,  begged  some  of  the  girls 
to  wait  for  the  rain  and  baptise  a  handsome 
young  Jew,  who  danced  divinely;  the  carriages 
had  been  announced,  and  the  guests  fled.  One  by 
one  the  couples  of  carriage  lamps  detached  them- 
selves from  the  moving  confusion  of  lights  that 
shone  in  front  of  the  villa,  and  rolling  swiftly 
along  the  drive  below  the  encircling  wall,  dis- 
appeared in  the  darkness.  Another  peal  of 
thunder  re-echoed  through  the  shadows  of  the 
garden,  and  rolled  in  through  the  open  windows, 
filling  the  halls  of  the  villa  like  the  awe-inspiring 
voice  of  a  threatening  Master,  who,  from  out  His 
dark  tent  of  clouds,  was  calling  all  this  human 


Numina,  non  Nomina  291 

vanity,  and  all  these  terrified  and  silent  things  to 
account  for  having  so  completely  forgotten  Him. 
The  windows  were  closed,  and  at  last  the  sound 
of  the  steps  and  voices  of  the  servants  was  hushed. 
Leaning  against  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony 
outside  her  bedroom,  Jeanne,  tired,  indeed,  but 
wakeful,  listened  unconsciously  to  the  trembling 
of  the  restless  branches  below  her,  and  watched 
the  ceaseless  and  silent  flashing  of  the  lightning 
along  the  murky  comb  of  the  hills,  like  the  con- 
tinuous and  feverishly  rapid  opening  and  shutting 
of  a  great  fiery  eye  in  the  sky.  She  was  revelling 
in  the  freedom  of  solitude,  in  the  delicious  relief 
from  an  unbearable  burthen  of  pretence.  Had 
Maironi  been  present  during  the  evening  she 
would  have  felt  only  the  delight  of  being  admired 
before  him  for  her  beauty,  her  grace,  the  magnifi- 
cence of  her  hospitality.  Mentally  she  would  have 
offered  him  everything,  all  the  grateful  homage  of 
her  guests!  Even  in  his  absence  she  could  have 
offered  it  to  him  joyfully,  were  it  not  for  that 
painful  letter.  But,  as  it  was,  those  long  hours 
had  brought  her  only  weariness  and  anxiety. 
Never  before  had  humanity  seemed  to  her  so 
foolish  and  so  false,  never  before  had  she  herself 
seemed  so  foolish  and  so  false.  The  noise  of  the 
thunder,  the  rustling  of  the  branches,  the  con- 
tinuous flashing  of  the  lightning  were  a  relief  to 
her,  their  sincerity  contrasting  with  all  the  simu- 
lation she  had  so  recently  witnessed  and  prac- 
tised. Besides  he  also  loved  these  sounds.  Good 


292  The  Sinner 

God !  what  awful  things  Bassanelli  had  said !  His 
father!  Formerly  she  would  have  smiled  at  the 
thought,  but  not  now!  It  had  begun  to  rain  quiet- 
ly and  silently.  She  withdrew  from  the  balcony 
and  opened  the  drawer  of  her  writing-desk.  The 
letter  was  there,  lying  beside  the  silver  box  in 
which  Jeanne  kept  his  other  letters,  her  greatest 
treasures.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  some 
of  them  every  night,  and  the  odour  of  heliotrope 
that  escaped  from  the  open  box  repeated  to  her 
those  intensely  sweet  words  to  which  she  was 
wont  to  turn.  But  not  to-night,  alas!  To-night 
her  eyes  must  rest  upon  the  sad  words : 

"...  when,  for  a  moment,  I  heard  the  faint 
sound  of  great  bells,  which  seemed  infinitely 
remote.  The  sound  came  from  above,  and  I 
cannot  express  to  you  the  impression  it  produced 
there  in  that  black  darkness,  in  that  intense 
silence.  I  listened  with  my  hand  to  my  ear,  and 
holding  my  breath.  I  heard  nothing  more. 
That  is,  only  a  voice  near  me  saying  in  the  dialect 
of  the  country:  'Those  are  the  bells  of  Puria. ' 
It  was  the  care  taker,  the  Sindaco  of  Albogasio. 
I  thought  he  had  grown  weary  with  waiting  for 
me,  and  told  him  he  could  go  to  bed.  'Leu  is 
here,'  said  he.  'Leu?'  I  asked.  'At  this  hour?' 
'  It  is  indeed  strange, '  he  replied,  '  but  she  is 
slightly  .  .  .'  and  he  finished  the  sentence  with 
a  smile  and  the  familiar  gesture  of  the  hand  raised 
to  the  forehead.  'She  has  often  inquired  lately 
when  you  were  coming,'  he  added,  'for  she  says 


Numina,  non  Nomina  293 

she  has  something  to  tell  you,  something  about 
the  old  days;  but  when  I  ask  her  what  it  is,  she 
always  declares  she  cannot  tell  any  one  but  you. 
However,  I  think  she  is  quite  .  .  .'  I  ordered 
him  to  admit  the  woman,  and  presently  I  heard 
Leu's  voice  repeating :  '  Do  you  understand  ? 
Do  you  understand  that  you  are  not  to  stay  here 
and  listen?  Eh?  Do  you  understand?'  And 
so  the  mayor  took  himself  off  laughing. 

"  The  old  woman  began  by  offering  me  a  basket 
of  unripe  plums  and  then  held  forth  at  great 
length  concerning  my  good  health  and  her  own 
poor  health;  she  chattered  of  the  desire  to  see 
me  that  had  tormented  her,  and  of  her  fear  of 
dying  before  my  arrival,  as  well  as  of  the  wicked- 
ness of  her  relatives  and  especially  of  the  care-taker, 
Tognin,  who  believed  her  to  be  mad.  She  was 
moved  to  tears  when  she  told  me,  as  she  always 
does,  about  the  cup  of  coffee  she  brought  my 
father  to  the  very  spot  where  we  were  then  stand- 
ing, the  night  he  came  secretly  from  Lugano  by 
way  of  the  hills,  and  found  my  poor  little  sister 
dead.  I  believed  she  had  nothing  new  to  tell  me, 
and  that  she  would  end  by  asking  me  for  money, 
so  I  encouraged  her  to  repeat  many  things  about 
my  parents  which  I  am  always  glad  to  hear  from 
her  lips,  and  led  her  on  to  make  a  certain  declara- 
tion with  which  I  am  familiar:  'You  are  a  fine 
gentleman  and  a  good  gentleman,  but  your  an- 
cestors were  twice  as  fine  and  good  as  you!'  At 
last  she  informed  me  that  she  was  afraid  Tognin 


294  The  Sinner 

would  scold  her  if  she  stayed  too  long,  and  that 
she  must  give  me  what  she  had  for  me  at  once. 

"  Then  she  began  to  tell  me  of  what  happened 
in  my  parents'  house  during  the  last  days  of  my 
mother's  life,  and  immediately  after  her  death, 
which  took  place  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  January, 
1862.  One  day  when  the  breva  was  blowing 
violently,  she  went  up  to  her  native  village  of 
Castello,  and,  on  her  way  home,  stopped  at  the 
cemetery,  where  she  took  the  terrible  cold  which 
developed  into  pneumonia  and  caused  her  death. 
According  to  Leu's  account,  the  house  was  then 
literally  sacked.  It  was  full  of  people  all  the  time, 
and  all  helped  themselves  to  what  they  wanted. 
My  father  had  died  two  years  before,  and  I  myself 
was  only  a  little  over  two  years  old.  My  grand- 
mother, however,  soon  sent  an  agent  from  Brescia 
who  closed  the  house,  appointed  a  care-taker 
(Tognin's  father)  and  carried  me  away  with  him. 

"  Leu  maintains  that  this  agent  gave  her  the 
furniture  of  the  bedroom  she  had  occupied  and  a 
small  table  which  she  swears  my  poor  mother  had 
promised  her.  In  the  drawer  of  this  table  she 
found  a  large  portfolio,  which  my  mother  had 
once  embroidered  for  my  Uncle  Ribera.  She 
says  it  contained  no  money,  and,  believing  it  to 
be  empty,  she  preserved  it  only  in  memory  of 
the  'Signer  Ingegnere. '  Last  winter  a  notary 
from  Porlezza  happened  to  come  to  Oria,  and 
Leu,  who  owns  a  small  house,  a  bit  of  woodland, 
and  has  saved  a  little  money,  determined  to  make 


Numina,  non  Nomina  295 

her  will — who  knows,  perhaps  her  conscience 
pricked  her! — and  leave  me  the  furniture  and  the 
portfolio,  which  she  showed  the  notary.  He 
opened  it,  and  found  that  it  contained  some  docu- 
ments. These  he  hastily  examined,  and  told 
the  old  woman  to  restore  them  to  me  at  once, 
because  although  they  were  of  no  value  to  her, 
they  would  certainly  be  of  interest  to  me.  She 
now  begged  me  to  accept  both  documents  and 
portfolio,  adding  that  she  had  hidden  it  in  her 
basket  on  account  of  Tognin.  At  this  point  she 
drew  it  from  beneath  the  plums,  and  presented 
it  to  me. 

"  I  dismissed  her  as  soon  as  possible  and  went 
up  to  my  room  in  great  excitement,  locking  the 
door  behind  me.  I  had,  of  course,  brought  the 
precious  portfolio  with  me.  After  all,  it  can 
hardly  be  called  a  portfolio,  but  is  really  a  sort 
of  letter  case  mounted  in  black  velvet,  upon  which 
are  embroidered,  in  gold,  the  words,  'Ingegnere 
Pietro  Ribera. '  It  is  furnished  with  many 
pockets,  and  in  one  of  these  I  found  the  papers. 

"Oh,  Jeanne,  Jeanne!  What  wonderful  read- 
ing! At  first  I  felt  only  tender  and  gentle  emo- 
tion, but  later  a  storm  of  hot  and  oppressive 
grief  swept  over  me! 

"  I  concluded  that  my  uncle  had  never  used 
the  portfolio,  and  that  after  his  death,  which 
took  place  at  Isola  Bella  some  months  before  I 
was  born,  my  poor  mother  used  it  as  a  sort  of 
reliquary. 


296  The   Sinner 

"  The  first  papers  I  chanced  upon  were  some 
letters  that  had  passed  between  my  parents  when 
my  father  was  in  exile,  and  my  mother  was  living 
at  Oria  with  my  little  sister,  Uncle  Piero,  and  his 
housekeeper.  They  had  barely  enough  to  support 
them,  and  my  father,  in  Turin,  was  even  worse 
off.  These  letters  are  full  of  animation  and  fresh- 
ness, especially  my  mother's,  which  often  made 
me  smile.  They  contain  bright  touches  of  humour, 
and  some  character  sketches  that  are  intensely 
vivid,  while  her  mode  of  expression  is  simple  and 
unpretentious.  My  father's  style  is  more  studied. 
The  venerable  figure  of  Uncle  Piero,  the  sweet 
figure  of  little  Missipip\,  as  my  baby  sister  Maria 
is  called  in  these  letters,  stand  out  boldly,  full  of 
sweetness  and  grace.  Ah!  and  it  is  all  so  simple! 
As  I  read  I  experienced  a  great  homesickness, 
as  it  were,  for  that  world  of  poverty  and  purity, 
and  a  great  loathing  of  this  world  of  ours ;  not  only 
of  that  ultra-fashionable  sphere  in  which  you  live, 
but  also  for  that  other  sphere  in  which  I  was 
brought  up,  that  world  of  the  Scremins,  of  old- 
fashioned  wigs  and  powder,  of  private  niggardli- 
ness and  a  public  display  of  liveries.  And  then  a 
further  revelation  surprised  and  moved  me:  the 
revelation  that  my  father  and  mother  had  differed 
widely  in  their  religious  views.  It  appears  to  me 
that  my  mother  held  practically  the  same  opinions 
which  I  profess  at  present.  My  father,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  firm  believer.  But  how  much 
life  there  was  in  his  faith,  how  much  purity  and 


Numina,  non  Nomina  297 

warmth,  and  what  humble  and  tender  affection 
for  his  unbelieving  companion!  There  was  none 
of  the  arrogance  of  those  who  pretend  to  be  in 
sole  possession  of  the  truth;  his  was  faith,  simple 
faith,  the  faith  of  one  who  believes  just  as  a  plant 
turns  towards  the  sun,  because  it  cannot  do 
otherwise.  I  also  discovered  some  less  interesting 
letters  from  my  uncle  and  from  Grandmother 
Rigey,  and  there  was  an  envelope  containing  a 
lock  of  my  little  sister's  hair.  How  the  sight  of 
this  moved  me  after  what  I  had  just  read  about 
her.  poor  darling!  But  the  thought  of  my  parents' 
grief  affected  me  still  more  deeply.  Then  there 
was  another  envelope,  upon  which  my  dear 
mother  had  written  the  words:  '  Precious  relics.' 

"  I  opened  it.  It  contained  only  a  few  ashes  in 
a  sheet  of  white  paper.  Precious  relics!  What 
could  this  be?  I  thought  and  thought,  and  at  last 
the  conviction  was  borne  in  upon  me,  filling  me 
with  ineffable  reverence,  that  these  wrere  the 
ashes  of  my  father's  love-letters.  Ah,  Jeanne, 
what  a  great  thing,  what  a  great  revelation,  what 
pure  and  holy  ashes!  How  grand  my  parents' 
union  had  been,  and  this  thought  was  at  once 
sweet  and  bitter  to  me!  I  felt  I  was  suffocating, 
was  being  borne  away  from  the  world  of  the  living, 
and  cast  among  the  shadows  of  the  world  of  long 
ago.  I  was  obliged  to  throw  open  the  window, 
and  I  stood  there  for  many  minutes,  with  my 
hands  resting  on  the  sill,  breathing  in  the  night 
air,  thinking  of  nothing,  but  still  dimly  conscious 


298  The   Sinner 

of  the  reality  of  the  things  of  the  present.  There 
were  only  two  more  papers  to  be  examined.  I  was 
doubtful  whether  to  read  them  or  not.  I  felt 
exhausted,  felt  that  I  was  incapable  of  approaching 
these  relics  with  the  attention  they  deserved. 
At  last,  however,  I  conquered  this  sense  of  rever- 
ence. The  first  of  these  documents  dealt  with  a 
very  important  matter  of  business,  so  important, 
indeed,  as  to  profoundly  influence  the  future 
course  of  my  life.  But  this  is  not  the  moment  to 
speak  of  it.  The  other  was  a  simple  sheet  of 
paper,  at  the  top  of  which  my  poor  mother  had 
traced  the  words: 

"  '  A  prayer  composed  for  my  use,  by  him,  on 
a  day  of  great  happiness. ' 

"  The  prayer  is  a  short  one,  Jeanne,  but  I  cannot 
copy  it  out.  Perhaps  some  day  I  may  be  able 
to  do  so;  in  the  present  dark  and  stormy  state  of 
my  soul  I  am  not  fit  for  the  task.  I  cannot  allow 
my  hand  to  trace  my  father's  pious  words  while 
my  intellect  still  refuses  to  accept  their  message. 
The  'day  of  great  happiness'  was  the  fifteenth 
of  October,  1859.  My  parents'  souls  had  been 
reunited  in  the  same  faith  by  an  act  of  sincere 
devotion,  upon  the  festival  of  St.  Theresa,  poor 
Grandmother  Rigey's  patron  saint.  My  father 
was  feeling  better,  and  hope,  only  too  soon  to  be 
shattered,  had  sprung  up  within  and  around  him. 
His  words  are  very  sweet,  and  I,  who  was  about 
to  come  into  the  world,  am  remembered  in  the 
prayer. 


Numina,  non  Nomina  299 

"  When  the  sheet  dropped  from  my  hands  and  I 
turned  instinctively  towards  the  open  window  to 
gaze  upon  the  same  objects  my  parents  had  gazed 
upon,  I  once  more  heard  the  faint  sound  of  great 
bells,  that  seemed  immeasurably  remote.  Oh, 
Jeanne!  I  heard  my  father's  voice  in  those  bells! 
His  sad,  reproachful  voice!  Do  you  understand? 

"  I  shall  leave  on  Saturday  by  the  early  boat, 
by  way  of  Lecco  and  Rovato.  But  first  I  wish  to 
seek  for  information  concerning  many  things 
and  persons  of  the  world  of  long  ago.  Good-bye. 
What  plans  have  I  for  you,  for  myself  in  the 
future?  As  yet  I  am  undecided.  But  would  it 
have  been  honourable,  would  it  have  been  possible 
for  me  to  hide  from  you  all  these  things,  and  the 
painful  storm  that  is  raging  within  me?" 

The  fairies — happy  in  the  memory  of  their  night 
of  triumph — who,  at  that  moment,  were  discussing 
the  entertainment  with  their  sleepy  handmaidens, 
praising  Jeanne's  coiffure,  in  order  to  incite  them 
to  emulation,  certainly  did  not  suspect  that  she, 
whose  triumph  had  been  still  greater,  was  sitting 
enveloped  in  a  loose  gown,  her  magnificent  hair 
flowing  over  her  shoulders,  and  weeping  silently, 
like  the  night,  her  head  bowed  upon  her  clasped 
hands,  that  concealed  a  letter. 


CHAPTER  VI 

VENA  DI  FONTE  ALTA 


ON  Saturday  the  early  train  from  Milan 
reached  Rovato  twenty  minutes  late,  a 
delay  having  been  caused  at  Treviglio  by  the 
necessity  of  adding  an  extra  carriage.  Jeanne 
had  telegraphed  to  Marioni  from  Milan  on  Friday 
morning,  informing  him  of  her  intention  of  leaving 
the  next  day  by  that  train,  and  expressing  her 
anxious  hope  of  meeting  him  at  Rovato,  where 
the  train  he  would  take  from  Lecco  arrives  at  the 
same  time  as  the  Venice  express.  No  answer 
had  reached  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  telegram 
did  not  call  for  an  answer,  nevertheless  all  Jeanne's 
anxieties  were  now  united  in  the  great  dread  that 
she  might  not  find  Maironi  at  Rovato.  She  had 
gone  to  the  station  very  early,  and  had  installed 
herself  in  an  empty  carriage;  but,  much  to  her 
discomfort,  five  other  travellers  joined  her  before 
the  moment  of  departure  arrived.  The  train  was 
crowded,  and  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  change 
for  the  better.  Her  companions  were,  moreover, 
Italians,  and  especially  talkative  and  inquisitive. 

300 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  301 

Two  disagreeable  women,  very  fashionably  dressed, 
amused  themselves  by  studying  her  toilette,  while 
a  still  more  disagreeable  and  fashionably  dressed 
man  was  studying  Jeanne  herself.  She  had 
chosen  a  seat  in  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  com- 
partment, and  as  soon  as  the  locomotive  whistled 
upon  nearing  the  station  of  Rovato,  she  rose 
to  her  feet,  and  stood  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
with  an  intensely  pale  face.  Ah,  there  he  was, 
and  his  eyes  were  seeking  her!  She  smiled  and 
beckoned  to  him,  telling  him  there  was  room 
in  her  compartment.  In  her  smile,  in  her  greeting, 
she  appeared  far  more  composed  than  he;  but 
presently,  behind  the  broad  back  of  the  porter 
who  was  arranging  Piero's  luggage  in  the  net, 
her  face  assumed  an  expression  of  intense  an- 
guish, and  standing  close  to  him,  she  whispered: 
"Have  mercy  upon  me!" 

The  opposite  corner  was  occupied,  so  Piero  sat 
down  beside  her,  and  they  exchanged  a  few  in- 
different and  formal  remarks.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  see  she  had  taken  a  ticket  for  Venice. 
Why  for  Venice?  Yes,  indeed!  Jeanne  smiled, 
and  spreading  a  newspaper  before  her  face, 
whispered  behind  it :  "  In  order  not  to  compromise 
you,"  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  bit  her 
lip,  but  quickly  controlled  herself,  and,  smiling 
brightly  once  more,  began  telling  him  of  the 
entertainment  at  Villa  Diedo  that  had  been  such 
a  success,  and  of  her  brother's  whimsical  fairy 
tale.  Piero  could  not  follow  her,  and  did  not 


302  The  Sinner 

even  inquire  the  subject  of  the  tale,  but  Jeanne 
talked  steadily  on.     Carlino  intended  to  return 
from   Milan  on  Tuesday.     On  Thursday,   or,  at 
latest,  on  Saturday  he  would  go  away  again  with 
her.     Where    were    they    going?     To    Vena    di 
Fonte    Alta — the    pretty    name    of    a    beautiful 
mountain    resort.     Carlino    had    had    a   drop    of 
blood  analysed,  and  had  insisted  upon  the  doctor's 
pricking  Jeanne's  finger  and  examining  her  blood 
also.     The  doctor  had  found  an  insufficiency  of 
red  globules  in  both,  and  had  advised  a  visit  to 
Recoaro.     But   Jeanne   would   not   hear   of   Re- 
coaro,  of  St.  Moritz,  nor  of  any  other  waters,  and 
so  they  had  decided  to  go  to  Vena  simply  for  a 
change  of  air.     Piero  did  not  know  where  Vena 
was,  nor  by  what  road  it  might  be  reached.     They 
discussed    this   point   in    low   tones.     Vena   was 
five  hours  from  the  city,  two  hours  of  train  and 
three   of   carriage;   it   lay   one   thousand   metres 
above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  offered  the  at- 
tractions of   pine-groves,  beech-groves,  solitude, 
and  quiet.     The  Dessalles  had  already  engaged 
four  rooms  at  the  one  small  hotel  the  place  boasted. 
There  were  six  more  vacant.     Jeanne  said  this 
almost  timidly.     Piero  made  no  answer,  and  the 
conversation    languished.     Both    gazed    out    of 
the  same  window  at  the  flying  verdure,  glistening 
in  the  sunshine,  conscious  that  at  a  certain  point 
in  those  fields  running  parallel  with  the  railway 
their    glances   met,    were   united,    and    hastened 
forward  together.     Perhaps  their  secret  thoughts 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  303 

met  also  in  the  rhythmic  clatter  that  was  carrying 
them  along.  It  was  very  hot.  At  Brescia  Piero 
offered  Jeanne  a  refreshing  drink,  which  she  ac- 
cepted— not,  however,  because  she  was  thirsty— 
with  a  smile  so  grateful,  so  humble,  so  eloquent 
that  the  traveller  seated  opposite  her  immediately 
glanced  at  the  eyes  of  the  man  upon  whom  this 
beautiful  woman  smiled  thus. 

"And  how  about  the  elections?"  said  she. 

At  first  Piero  did  not  seem  to  understand.  Ah, 
yes!  His  father-in-law  had  both  written  and 
telegraphed  to  him  at  Brescia,  entreating  him  to 
take  part  in  the  campaign,  or,  at  least,  to  persuade 
others  to  do  so.  The  telegram  and  letter  had 
been  forwarded  to  him  at  Valsolda.  It  was  pre- 
cisely for  this  reason  that  he  was  determined  not 
to  stop  at  Brescia,  not  even  between  two  trains. 
In  the  Lonato  tunnel  Jeanne  took  his  hand,  and 
pressed  his  bare  wrist  to  her  lips  and  to  her  eyes 
that  were  wet  with  tears.  The  hand  yielded, 
neither  resisting  nor  reciprocating  her  tenderness. 
The  tunnel  passed,  both  gazed  out  of  the  window 
once  more  at  the  smiling  hills,  but  a  slight  tremor 
betrayed  them.  When  the  lofty,  mist-veiled 
mountains  and  the  blue  waters  of  Garda  appeared, 
Jeanne  asked: 

"What  was  your  lake  like  this  morning?" 

Piero  said  he  had  left  it  in  a  dramatic  mood,  all 
trembling  diamonds  and  blue  mists  towards  the 
east,  and  all  darkest  green  beneath  great,  threat- 
ening, black  clouds  in  the  west.  He  described 


304  The    Sinner 

the  struggles  between  light  and  shadow  upon  the 
mountains  that  surround  the  lake,  speaking  with 
much  animation  and  eloquence,  as  if  in  compen- 
sation for  the  silence  he  must  perforce  maintain 
concerning  another  mighty  struggle.  Jeanne  ven- 
tured to  ask  a  question. 

"How  did  you  leave  a  certain  person?"  said 
she,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  of 
her  head  in  his  direction. 

Piero  sighed,  and  answered  with  a  silent  gesture 
of  despairing  incertitude. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  exclaimed  sadly,  speaking 
rather  to  herself,  but,  nevertheless,  she  experienced 
a  sense  of  inward  relief,  and  added:  "The  case  is 
so  different!" 

Piero  questioned  her  with  his  eyes,  and  pres- 
ently she  inquired  how  long  the  train  would  stop 
at  ...  Twenty  minutes.  Piero  understood, 
and  hastened  to  inform  her  that  he  had  an  ap- 
pointment with  Dr.  ...  at  that  station,  and 
would  be  obliged  to  remain  with  him  all  the  time. 
Jeanne  knew  the  doctor  by  name,  and  was  aware 
that  he  had  charge  of  the  mad  woman.  She 
heartily  acquiesced  in  this  arrangement,  showing 
how  willing  she  was  to  subordinate  her  own 
wishes,  herself  even,  to  the  interest  it  was  his 
duty  to  display  in  his  wife's  condition. 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  right,"  said  she. 

And  once  more  she  sought  to  meet  his  glance, 
his  dear  soul,  out  there  on  the  calm  waters  of 
Garda.  She  had  feared  the  worst,  but  now  she 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  305 

felt  there  was  indecision  in  that  soul,  and  she 
hoped,  hoped  passionately,  ready  to  make  any 
sacrifice  joyously,  to  see  him  less  often,  to  deny 
herself  the  delight  of  caresses,  the  sweetness  of 
the  familiar  thou,  should  he  demand  these  things, 
if  only  she  might  keep  his  love,  if  only  he  would 
not  leave  her!  She  hoped  in  fear  and  trembling, 
covering  the  wavering  spark  with  gentle  sadness, 
and  hiding  it  in  her  heart.  Piero  was  indeed  still 
undecided.  While  writing  to  Jeanne  he  had  been 
shaken  by  a  stormy  return  of  the  faith  of  his 
youth,  by  a  paroxysm  of  grief  and  affection,  an 
ineffable  striving  of  the  spirit  towards  God.  When 
the  first  violence  of  this  wave  had  spent  itself, 
he  had  hastened  to  place  himself  on  the  defensive 
against  his  own  nature,  against  his  mystic  ten- 
dencies, against  everything  that  might  lead  him 
astray  from  the  path  he  was  resolved  to  travel, 
the  path  of  an  apostolate  in  the  cause  of  social 
justice,  an  apostolate  containing  no  hatred  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  but,  at  the  same  time,  entirely 
independent  of  her.  This  was  the  path  his  mother 
might  have  dreamed  of  his  following  at  the  time 
when  her  sole  belief  was  in  the  idea  of  justice, 
when  she  worshipped  that  idea  alone.  He  recog- 
nised in  himself  the  blood  of  both  his  parents, 
recognised  the  renewal  of  their  fatal  conflict.  He 
entertained  a  suspicion  that  his  mother's  sub- 
mission had  been  the  outcome  rather  of  love  and 
pity  than  of  honest  conviction.  Immediately, 
however,  he  remembered  her  perfect  loyalty  and 


306  The  Sinner 

her  proud  spirit.  How  could  she  have  lied  ?  But, 
nevertheless,  the  suspicion  would  return.  It  was, 
moreover,  most  painful  to  him  to  struggle  thus 
against  his  father's  blood.  There  flashed  across 
his  mind  certain  vague  images  of  a  solitary  life 
of  contemplation  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  com- 
forted by  religious  practices,  and  he  recalled  Don 
Giuseppe  Flores'  advice.  But  he  quickly  rid 
himself  of  these  dreams.  Little  by  little  the 
conviction  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  this  strug- 
gle would  prove  decisive;  that,  should  he  win  the 
day,  he  would  remain  for  ever  firmly  grounded 
in  the  more  rational  conception  of  life  and  of  life's 
end ;  that,  freed  from  the  bonds  of  dogma  and  of 
creed,  but  entirely  devoted  to  a  just  cause,  the 
blood  of  his  father  would  at  last  be  pacified,  and 
this  all  the  more  easily  if  he  himself  should  put 
into  execution  a  brave  resolve,  should  make  a 
certain  great  sacrifice  to  justice,  the  reason  and 
plan  for  which  he  had  found  in  the  portfolio,  but 
had  not  disclosed  to  Jeanne.  But  even  should 
she,  from  a  distance,  have  read  in  his  soul  this 
victory  of  the  rational  element  over  the  mystical, 
she  would  find  in  it  but  slight  cause  for  rejoicing. 
Was  his  love  compatible  with  a  social  apostolate 
such  as  Piero  dreamed  of?  Was  he  not  bound  to 
sacrifice  this  weak  passion  for  a  woman  who  was 
incapable  of  grasping  the  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  his  scheme  ?  His  mother,  in  her  austere  virtue 
would  be  inexorable  towards  one  who,  yielding  to 
passion,  should  break,  if  only  for  a  time,  the  faith 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  307 

he  had  sworn,  and  bind  himself  by  unavowable  ties, 
ties  that  might  be  concealed  only  by  lies. 

Seated  on  Friday  afternoon  upon  the  low  wall 
of  the  kitchen  garden,  among  the  roses  his  father 
had  planted,  and  which  seemed  to  him  so  much 
more  sweetly  spiritual  than  their  bold  and  volup- 
tuous sisters  at  Villa  Diedo,  he  was  musing  upon 
the  fact  that  had  Jeanne  not  resisted  him,  he  would 
never  more  have  been  able  to  leave  her,  when  her 
telegram  from  Milan  was  brought  to  him.  The 
telegram  irritated  him.  He  had  no  desire  to 
meet  Jeanne  so  soon,  before  having  reached  a 
final  decision  concerning  the  path  he  must  follow. 
Reflecting  upon  this  unpleasant  impression,  he 
asked  himself:  "Do  I  still  love  her?"  and  im- 
mediately he  felt  within  him  the  coldness  of  the 
answer,  the  fear  of  possible  hypocrisy  on  his  part. 
On  several  previous  occasions,  however,  when  he 
had  encountered  her  scepticism,  or  the  spirit  of 
contradiction  that  possessed  her,  he  had  thought 
he  no  longer  loved  her,  but  this  had  been  but  a 
passing  coldness.  Should  he  start  the  next 
morning,  or  should  he  remain?  He  ended  by 
telling  himself  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  face  this 
meeting,  which  he  half  dreaded,  without  delay. 
As  he  went  thoughtfully  towards  the  house  where 
a  gardener  from  Lugano  was  waiting  to  consult 
him  about  the  creepers  that  were  to  replace  the 
dead  passion-flower  vine,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  comparing  his  own  sentiment,  even  as  it  had 
been  in  former  days,  with  Jeanne's,  and  he  was 


3o8  The  Sinner 


forced  to  admit  its  inferiority  in  strength  and 
loftiness,  and  to  doubt  whether  that  first  meeting 
in  the  train  would  not  have  remained  a  simple 
episode,  had  it  not  been  for  her  passionate  ad- 
vances in  the  very  beginning,  and  for  his  own 
blind  longing  for  liberty,  for  life,  for  love. 

When  the  hour  of  departure  arrived  on  Satur- 
day morning,  the  voices  of  sacred  memories,  the 
tender  voices  of  his  surroundings,  once  more 
touched  his  heart  as  they  had  touched  it  on  that 
memorable  night.  The  orange  tree  and  mandarin 
in  the  little  garden,  the  roses  and  the  towering 
pine  in  the  kitchen  garden,  all  seemed  to  be  looking 
towards  him  with  that  gentle  agonised  gaze  of 
mute  sufferers  as  the  steamer  carried  him  past 
them.  The  farther  he  journeyed  from  these  sur- 
roundings the  more  strength  the  calls  of  the 
present  acquired  against  the  calls  of  the  past,  and 
of  this  lonely  and  peaceful  retreat;  but  as  the 
train  sped  rapidly  along  the  Porlezza  Valley  he 
suddenly  recalled  the  premonitory  sense  of  trouble 
which  he  had  experienced  while  passing  that  spot 
a  few  days  ago,  a  feeling  which  had  remained  with 
him  to  his  journey's  end.  Had  he  then  been 
drawn  to  Valsolda  by  a  supernatural  powrer?  Or 
had  the  first  impulse  to  go  there  arisen  from  a 
forgotten  dream?  Had  Jeanne's  insistence  and 
his  own  habit  of  visiting  the  lake  every  spring, 
perhaps  caused  the  dream?  When  the  train  had 
passed  Grandola,  and  there  appeared  in  the  west 
that  swelling  bosom  of  sky  upon  earth  which — 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  3°9 

beyond  the  sharply  outlined  hills  of  Bellagio — 
sweeps  down  between  two  wings  of  mountains, 
in  its  rapid  flight  towards  Lecco,  Piero  started 
as  if  Jeanne  herself  had  appeared  before  him,  and 
henceforth  all  his  thoughts  were  of  her,  and  of 
the  meeting  that  was  fast  approaching.  As  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  platform  waiting  for  the 
train  from  Milan,  his  heart  beat  violently,  but 
when,  at  last,  he  saw  Jeanne  he  began  to  feel 
more  calm.  He  was  glad  she  was  not  alone.  Al- 
though he  had  expected  it  in  one  form  or  another, 
her  murmured  prayer:  "Have  mercy  upon  me!" 
went  to  his  heart.  She  was  very  lovely  in  her 
gown  of  crdpe  creme  trimmed  with  black  velvet, 
her  Rembrandt  hat  with  its  black  plume,  her  black 
gloves,  and  the  two  broad  bands  of  plain  gold  that 
encircled  her  wrists.  The  gentle  fire  of  her  great 
liquid  eyes  was  full  of  entreaty,  and  although  her 
arm  was  withdrawn  timidly  from  a  slight  con- 
tact with  his,  it  was  with  a  perceptible  heaving 
of  her  bosom  and  an  accompanying  glance  of 
infinite  sweetness.  When,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
tunnel,  she  had  kissed  his  wrist,  and  pressed  it 
to  her  eyes  that  were  wet  with  tears,  he  had  ex- 
perienced no  voluptuous  delight,  but  rather  a 
sense  of  reverent  tenderness.  Who  else  would 
ever  love  him  with  such  humble  and  mighty  love? 
Was  such  love  not  worthy  of  respect,  like  every- 
thing else  in  the  world?  And  what  would  be  the 
result  if  she  should  say  to  him  presently:  "I  am 
no  longer  sceptical;  I  now  share  your  ideals;  my 


310  The   Sinner 

ardour  for  them  is  as  great  as  your  own,  and  I 
would  stand  out  against  you  should  you  seek  to 
sacrifice  your  duty  to  your  love!" 

At  the  station  of  .  .  .  ,  which  is  the  one  imme- 
diately preceding  that  at  which  Piero  had  ap- 
pointed to  meet  the  doctor,  the  traveller  who  had 
occupied  the  seat  opposite  Jeanne  left  the  train, 
and  Piero  rose  to  draw  up  the  window.  .  The 
doctor  was  on  the  platform,  and  catching  sight 
of  him,  quickly  entered  the  carriage  and  sat  down 
beside  him.  That  he  might  not  appear  to  be  in 
Jeanne's  company,  Piero  had  taken  the  vacant 
seat.  It  at  once  occurred  to  him  that  the  doctor, 
thinking  they  were  among  strangers,  might  speak 
unguardedly  of  the  matter  in  hand,  and  he  was 
on  the  point  of  presenting  him  to  Jeanne,  or  of 
speaking  to  her  himself,  but  finally  decided  not 
to  do  so.  As  Maironi  asked  no  questions,  the 
doctor  looked  about  him,  and  did  not  speak  until 
the  train  had  started,  when  he  said,  in  an  under- 
tone: 

"  I  have  some  slight  news  for  you,  but  unfortu- 
nately it  is  unfavourable." 

Piero  answered,  in  an  equally  low  voice: 

"You  shall  tell  me  presently." 

His  eyes  and  Jeanne's  met  in  a  fleeting  and 
questioning  glance.  At  the  next  station  Maironi 
and  the  physician  got  out,  and  Jeanne  lost  sight 
of  them  in  the  hurrying  crowd.  Maironi  re- 
turned to  the  carriage  five  minutes  before  the  train 
started.  Jeanne  was  alone.  She  had  changed 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  311 

her  seat,  and  now  occupied  the  right-hand  corner 
with  her  back  to  the  locomotive.  She  had  made 
this  change  for  the  same  reasons  of  prudence  that 
had  prompted  her  to  continue  her  journey  as  far 
as  Venice,  and  in  order  that  she  might  avoid  all 
danger  of  being  seen  when  he  should  leave  the 
carriage  by  the  door  on  the  left,  for  perhaps  there 
might  be  some  one  at  the  station  to  meet  him. 
She  was  taking  these  precautions  on  his  account, 
and  they  were  new,  sadly  new  to  her. 

"Come,  come,  come!"  said  she  softly,  and, 
when  Piero  was  seated  beside  her,  she  rested  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder,  and,  taking  his  hand, 
pressed  it  to  her  heart,  quickly  forgetting  all  pre- 
cautions, as  was  her  nature,  and  answering  all 
his  prudent  remonstrances  in  a  voice  choked  with 
emotion  and  tears.  "  It  does  not  matter,  it  does 
not  matter!"  she  said,  "only  don't  leave  me, 
don't  leave  me!  How  you  have  hurt  me!  Good 
God!  how  you  have  hurt  me!  Don't  you  see  how 
different  it  is?  Don't  you  see  that  your  marriage, 
your  union,  is  not,  never  could  have  been  like  your 
parents'  union?  I  also  love  them,  darling,  those 
dear  ones  of  yours,  who  have  passed  away.  I 
love  them  dearly!  But  why  should  they  wish 
me  to  be  driven  to  despair  ? — Never  mind !  There 
is  no  one  here! — Why,  why  will  you  not  let  me 
speak?  What  harm  have  I  done  them,  poor 
unhappy  creature  that  I  am?  Is  it  my  fault 
that  they  are  dead,  and  that  I,  poor  unhappy 
creature,  am  alive  to  love  you  so  fondly,  to  love 


3t2  The    Sinner 

you  only,  to  think  of  you  only,  to  live  for  you 
alone,  my  darling,  darling  love  .  .  .  ?" 

She  paused,  raised  her  head  for  a  moment,  and 
was  about  to  encircle  her  lover's  neck  with  her 
arms,  when  he  checked  her ;  some  one  was  entering 
the  compartment.  Jeanne  composed  herself,  and 
the  train  started.  She  remained  silent,  her  eyes 
overflowing  with  tears,  until  they  reached  the 
next  station.  Then  she  whispered: 

"Was  that  the  doctor?" 

"Yes." 

"What  news  is  there?" 

"  Some  further  signs  of  intelligence,  but  they  are 
slight  and  fleeting,  and  tears,  many  tears,  whereas 
formerly  she  never  cried.  Her  bodily  health  is 
much  impaired,  and  she  grows  steadily  weaker." 

There  was  sorrow  in  Piero's  low  tones. 

"I  do  indeed  wish  she  might  recover,  Piero, " 
said  Jeanne.  "Don't  think  I  am  wicked." 

He  pressed  her  hand  so  tight  that  she  trembled 
with  joy.  For  some  time  no  word  passed  between 
them.  Jeanne  it  was  who  broke  the  silence  at 
last. 

"You  will  surely  come  to  Vena?" 

"Perhaps.  ..." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  must!"  Now  she  had  courage 
to  insist.  "Will  you  not  promise?  What  are 
your  plans  for  the  summer?" 

"  My  plans?  I  intend  going  on  a  long  journey, 
but  not  for  the  summer  only.  I  refer  to  the 
journey  I  have  mentioned  to  you  before." 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  313 

Jeanne  made  a  little  grimace  that  was  half 
pained  and  half  angry. 

"Still  that  same  idea?"  said  she,  in  one  of  her 
inexplicable  fits  of  revolt  against  others  and 
against  herself,  and  never  dreaming  how  fatally 
ill-timed  was  this  outburst  of  hers.  Piero  flushed 
hotly.  He  looked  towards  their  fellow-passenger, 
and  deliberately  and  obstinately  kept  his  head 
turned  in  that  direction,  while  she — who  had 
already  repented  of  her  folly — was  heaping  re- 
proaches upon  herself,  begging  for  forgiveness, 
supplicating,  entreating,  with  a  feverishly  rapid 
flow  of  words,  uttered  in  an  undertone.  At  last 
he  noisily  spread  open  a  newspaper,  and  said 
sternly:  "Enough!" 

Jeanne  obeyed  at  once,  and  Piero,  feeling  that 
he  had  been  too  severe,  was  filled  with  remorse. 

"  Never  speak  thus  to  me  again, "  said  he  gently. 

She  did  not  answer;  she  was  weeping  with  her 
face  towards  the  window. 

Piero  murmured  behind  his  newspaper:  "Now 
it  is  my  turn  to  beg  your  pardon!" 

"Thank  you!"  said  Jeanne,  so  softly  that  he 
hardly  caught  the  words,  but  without  turning 
from  the  window. 

Still  more  tenderly  he  continued :  "  If  you  can 
help  it,  do  not  even  think  those  thoughts  again." 

Her  only  answer  was:  "I  wish  I  could  die!" 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  reply,  and  both 
seemed  to  become  absorbed  in  the  rhythmic 
throbbing  which,  during  this  terrible  silence  of 


314  The   Sinner 

theirs,  was  measuring  the  swift  flight  of  the  mo- 
ments of  anguish. 

When  the  train  began  to  move  more  slowly,  and 
Piero  rose  to  collect  his  luggage,  Jeanne  found  a 
means  of  once  more  asking  for  his  promise  to  come 
up  to  Vena,  speaking  in  a  low  tone  and  with  clasped 
hands.  He  hesitated,  but  she  gazed  at  him  with 
a  look  of  such  ineffable  entreaty  in  her  eyes  that 
he  gave  the  promise  she  craved.  Then  she  would 
have  him  repeat  it  solemnly,  and  she  kissed  his 
dear  hand  with  sweet  and  humble  gratitude. 
Thus  they  parted. 


ii 


Piero  immediately  communicated  the  news  of 
her  daughter  to  the  Marchesa,  doing  his  best  to 
soften  the  more  distressing  parts.  She  received 
him  affectionately,  and  listened  to  his  recital  with 
her  usual  calm,  and  then  placidly,  almost  smilingly, 
gave  expression  to  her  faith:  "  I  am  sure  the  Lord 
will  heal  her!"  as  if  her  ears  had  been  closed  to  all 
save  the  few  words  of  encouragement.  Tears 
trembled  in  her  eyes,  tears  of  joy  at  her  son-in- 
law's  action,  at  the  emotion  which  was  evident 
beneath  his  composure;  tears  of  anguish,  also,  at 
the  words  she  had  seemed  to  overlook.  She 
begged  him  to  remain  and  dine  with  her,  but  he 
declined,  for  he  was  in  no  mood  to  enjoy  his  father- 
in-law's  society,  and  he  felt  sure  Zaneto  would 
immediately  introduce  the  question  of  the  Brescia 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  315 

elections.  He  longed,  moreover,  to  be  alone. 
Then  the  Marchesa  insisted  upon  calling  her 
husband,  that  he  might  hear  the  news  of  Elisa 
from  Piero  himself.  In  talking  with  her  son-in- 
law  she  had  always  striven  to  guide  him  through 
the  intricate  windings  of  Zaneto's  soul,  by  the 
light  of  a  small,  rose-tinted  lamp  she  herself 
carried,  pointing  out,  one  by  one,  all  the  refine- 
ments, all  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  thought  and 
intention  which  others  could  not  trace  in  certain 
acts  and  words  of  his,  and  which,  indeed,  were 
often  simply  the  reflection  of  virtues  that  were 
burned  into  the  glass  of  her  own  lantern.  "All 
the  rest,"  she  would  conclude  in  her  strange, 
elliptical  style,  meaning  many  things,  and  prob- 
ably including  the  senatorial  ambitions,  "all  the 
rest  just  for  amusement!" 

Zaneto  came,  was  effusively  affectionate  to  his 
son-in-law,  and,  having  listened  to  the  report, 
began  to  sob  noisily.  When  Piero  left  the  room 
he  accompanied  him,  and  stopping  him  on  the 
landing,  asked,  his  voice  still  full  of  tears,  if  he 
had  received  a  letter  from  Awocato  Marchiaro. 
No,  Piero  had  received  no  letter.  Then  Zaneto 
swallowed  and  coughed  over  and  over  again, 
hesitating  between  his  desire  to  speak  and  the 
consciousness  that  the  moment  was  ill-chosen. 

"Well,  well!"  said  he  at  last,  checking  his 
swallowing,  and  coughing,  "you  are  sure  to  hear 
from  him."  And  then  he  brought  the  conver- 
sation round  to  Brescia.  Had  Piero  taken  any  steps? 


316  The  Sinner 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  not,"  Piero  replied 
resolutely,  expecting  to  be  called  upon  to  explain 
his  conduct.  But  Zaneto  did  not  demand  an 
explanation.  He  turned  upon  his  heel  and  trotted 
away,  his  shoulders  bent,  and  accompanying  his 
trot  with  a  string  of  "Well,  well,  wells." 

In  the  afternoon,  while  Piero  was  busy  with  the 
letters  that  had  been  forwarded  from  Brescia 
while  he  was  at  Valsolda,  the  Marchesa  entered 
his  room.  The  first  words  she  uttered,  as  if 
announcing  a  most  important  and  interesting 
piece  of  news,  were:  "Papa  cried  dreadfully  after 
you  left,  poor  man!" 

Piero,  vexed  by  the  old  lady's  eternal  circum- 
locutions, saw  at  once  that  she  was  not  come 
solely  to  communicate  this  fact  to  him.  To  tell 
the  truth,  she  had  guessed  the  hidden  causes  that 
had  moved  Zaneto  to  follow  Piero  to  the  landing, 
and,  fearing  her  son-in-law  might  have  been  un- 
favourably impressed  by  his  importunities,  which 
were  both  ill-timed  and  out  of  place,  she  now 
wished  to  efface  any  such  impressions  by  passing 
over  them  the  sponge  of  her  own  optimism,  wet 
with  Marchese  Zaneto's  tears.  But  there  was 
something  besides  this.  During  dinner — which 
was  a  mere  feint,  for  she  ate  nothing — she  had 
devised  what  she  considered  a  clever  scheme  for 
winning  Piero  away  from  Villa  Diedo,  now  that 
he  appeared  so  well  disposed.  Therefore,  having 
told  him  of  the  tears,  she  added,  with  her  usual 


Vena  cli  Fonte  Alta  3*7 

incoherence,  that  Zaneto  would  like  to  go  there, 
but  that  she  thought  he  had  better  not. 

"Go  where?"  said  Piero,  adding  rather  mis- 
chievously: "To  Brescia?" 

"No,  no!     To  what's  its  name,  to  .  .  ." 

The  old  lady  mentioned  the  place  of  suffering. 
Piero  remained  silent,  and  after  a  long  and  awk- 
ward pause,  she  said: 

"There,  there!" 

Piero  felt  that  she  was  struggling  among  the 
brambles  of  a  lengthy  discourse,  but  he  had  no 
desire  to  help  her.  However,  when  the  footman 
came  in  to  light  the  gas  he  quickly  dismissed  him, 
this  being,  in  a  way,  an  invitation  to  speak.  His 
mother-in-law  simply  inquired  if  he  was  satisfied : 

"What  with,  Mamma?" 

"With  the  footman." 

He  made  some  vague  answer,  and  once  more 
they  lapsed  into  silence.  For  the  sake  of  doing 
something,  Piero  tore  up  some  envelopes  and 
threw  them  into  the  waste-paper  basket,  where- 
upon, the  Marchesa  cleverly  remarked:  "Letters. 
I  have  had  one  also." 

Then  she  began  a  confused  story  about  a  letter 
she  had  received  from  the  villa  in  which  she  was 
preparing  an  apartment  for  her  daughter  when 
she  should  be  well  enough  to  leave  the  asylum. 
The  care-taker's  children  had  the  measles.  "So  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  will  not  do,"  said  she.  Here 
at  last  was  a  slight  clue  to  the  hidden  tangle  of 
her  thoughts. 


3i 8  The  Sinner 

"  What  will  not  do,  Mamma?" 

"To  take  her  there." 

Piero  was  about  to  ask,  "Take  who  there?" 
but  he  checked  himself  in  time,  concluding  that 
she  must  mean  Elisa.  Once  more  they  were 
silent. 

"Is  there  any  illness  at  what  's-its-name?" 

"Where?" 

"At  Valsolda." 

He  was  astonished  at  the  unexpected  word, 
at  the  unexpected  proposal  that  glinted  through 
the  Marchesa's  incoherent  ramblings. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered,  and  he  saw 
himself  once  more  in  the  mystic  country,  in  the 
house  that  was  full  of  consciousness,  on  the  terrace 
beloved  by  Uncle  Piero  and  little  Missipipi,  saw 
himself  surrounded  by  solitude  and  silence  with 
his  wife  by  his  side,  his  wife,  who  was  bewildered, 
and  as  one  just  awakened  from  a  dream.  But 
this  vision  lasted  but  an  instant.  The  dream  of 
the  present  was  Elisa's  recovery.  At  last  the 
Marchesa  confessed  her  secret  thought.  Could 
not  her  son-in-law  return  at  once  to  Valsolda,  and 
put  the  house  into  condition  to  receive  her  at  anv 
season,  even  in  winter.  She  who  had  never  seen 
Valsolda  talked  about  it  as  if  she  had  been  per- 
fectly familiar  with  the  place,  piecing  together 
scraps  of  information  she  had  gleaned  long  ago, 
and  which,  albeit  in  a  sadly  muddled  state,  had 
remained  in  her  memory.  Thus  she  placidly 
mistook  the  house  at  Oria  for  the  house  at  Cres- 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  319 

sogno,  the  Lake  of  Como  for  the  Lake  of  Lugano, 
and  hopelessly  confused  Italy  and  Switzerland. 
But,  nothing  daunted,  the  old  lady  rambled  on, 
setting  forth  all  the  advantages  the  place  would 
offer  in  the  present  contingency,  should  their 
hopes  be  fulfilled,  and  bringing  proofs  that  it  was 
exactly  suited  to  her  daughter's  tastes,  although, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  Elisa  had  been  anything  but 
favourably  impressed  with  Valsolda.  She  finally 
brought  her  incoherent  ramblings  to  a  close  by 
begging  her  son-in-law  to  prepare  a  room  for  her 
also,  but  not  one  overlooking  the  lake,  because 
in  Venice — so  she  told  him — the  trembling  of  the 
water  always  made  her  head  dizzy. 

While  this  strange  discourse  was  in  course  of 
delivery,  Piero's  mind  had  wandered  to  other 
matters,  and  instead  of  replying  to  the  poor  old 
lady,  he  now  proceeded  to  question  her. 

"Listen,  Mamma,"  said  he.  "There  is  plenty 
of  time  to  think  of  all  this  later  on.  At  present  I 
wish  to  ask  you  about  something  that  happened 
long  ago.  When  you  were  first  married  did  you 
ever  hear  anything  in  Casa  Scremin  about  a  great 
lawsuit  that  the  Maironis  had  won  against  the 
Ospedale  Maggiore  at  Milan?" 

"I?"  said  the  old  lady. 

"Yes,  you.     Pray,  try  and  remember." 

She  thought  a  moment,  and  presently  replied: 

"I  know  nothing  about  it." 

Hardly  had  she  answered,  however,  when  she 
remembered  having  heard  her  father-in-law  Sere- 


320  The  Sinner 

min  speak  of  the  Maironis'  ill-gotten  wealth,  saying 
they  had  wrested  it  from  a  charitable  institution. 

"Wait,"    said    she.     "Perhaps    ..." 

But  it  suddenly  struck  her  that  she  might  be 
acting  imprudently,  and  she  hastened  to  add: 
"  No,  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

But  Piero  was  sure  she  did  know  something. 

"  I  have  found  a  letter  here  from  Avvocato 
Marchiaro, "  said  he. 

"Does  he  know?" 

He  certainly  did  not. 

"Avvocato  Marchiaro,"  Piero  went  on,  "tells 
me  he  has  negotiated  a  very  large  loan  for  Papa 
with  Carlo  Dessalle,  but  that  matters  are  now 
at  a  stand-still,  and  he  asked  me  to  give  my 
signature  for  the  furtherance  of  the  transaction. 
Even  were  I  disposed  to  do  so,  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  give  my  signature  at  the  present  moment,  for 
I  have  recently  made  some  important  discoveries 
relating  to  my  property,  which  forbid  my  dis- 
posing of  it,  at  least  for  the  time  being.  I  beg 
you  to  inform  Papa  of  this." 

The  poor  woman's  heart  sank.  A  loan  from  the 
Dessalles!  Ah,  Zaneto,  Zaneto!  She  could  find 
nothing  to  say,  and  rose,  frowning  and  distressed. 
Besides  the  greater  grief  there  was  her  sorrow  at 
not  being  able  to  defend  her  husband  with  her 
usual  clever  excuses  and  charitable  interpretations, 
and  at  being  obliged  to  accept  this  defeat  in 
Piero's  presence  and  at  his  hands.  She  left  the 
room,  he  following  respectfully  as  far  as  the 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  321 

threshold  of  her  own  apartments,  where  she  dis- 
missed him,  saying  sharply,  without  turning  her 
head: 

"  I  shall  not  tell  him  anything!  Indeed  I  shall 
not!" 

Piero  returned  to  his  letters.  He  had  already 
found  Don  Giuseppe  Flores'  visiting-card,  and 
now  he  discovered  a  letter  from  him  as  well.  He 
looked  at  it  for  some  minutes,  overwhelmed,  as 
he  had  been  that  day  in  the  cathedral,  by  the 
uprising  of  many  pictures  and  memories  of  his 
confession  to  the  old  priest,  in  that  little  room 
in  the  lonely  villa,  and  by  a  humiliating  sense  of 
the  opinion  this  man  must  have  of  him.  But 
to-day,  nevertheless,  his  sensations  were  not  the 
same.  The  meeting  with  Don  Giuseppe  in  the 
cathedral  had  not  been  welcome  to  him;  but, 
although  he  was  indeed  troubled  at  sight  of  his 
handwriting,  still  the  sense  of  uneasiness  it  pro- 
duced was  not  devoid  of  an  element  of  longing  and 
of  another  and  peculiar  emotion,  for  Don  Giuseppe 
had  always  evoked  in  him  the  images  of  his 
parents,  and  now  they  were  being  brought  before 
him  in  a  still  more  familiar  and  living  guise,  and 
were  speaking  words  of  love  and  authority  to  his 
soul.  Slowly  he  opened  the  letter,  and  read  as 
follows : 

"  DEAR  SIR  AND  DEAR  FRIEND, — 

"I  came  to  you  at  the  silent  prayer  of  a  poor 
soul,  whom  the  Lord  created  august  and,  I  may  say, 


322  The   Sinner 

sacred,  endowing  her  with  admirable  gifts  of  suffering 
and  of  submission  to  grief.  She  did  not  venture  to 
openly  entrust  to  this  useless  and  feeble  old  priest  a 
precious  message  laden  with  a  wisdom  that  is  not  of 
man.  Other  hands  there  are  more  fit  to  bear  it  than 
these  of  mine,  but  I  gathered  it  unwittingly  from 
the  person  I  have  named,  and  now  I  praise  Him  who 
did  not  permit  me  to  utter  it  to  you  with  my  faltering 
voice  and  broken  words.  I  have  determined  not  to 
repeat  my  visit,  but  to  send  the  precious  message 
to  where  they  tell  me  you  now  are,  to  send  it  not  in 
words,  but  enclosed  in  an  imaginary  jar,  whose  seal 
you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  breaking  if  you  follow 
me  carefully. 

"Think,  first  of  all,  of  the  painful  confession  you  made 
to  me,  seeking  me  out  in  my  solitude  at  a  moment 
when  your  conscience  was  tormenting  you — a  con- 
fession you  pronounced  with  such  perfect  frankness, 
such  generous  ardour,  that  your  words  of  reverence 
for  me  humbled  me  before  my  God.  Then  think  of 
a  poor  despairing  soul,  who  is  not  far  from  you:  of  a 
mother's  heart  that  is  wrung  more  cruelly  than  the 
world  sees  or  believes,  more  cruelly  than  it  will  ever 
believe.  Think  of  her  now,  although  you  may  at 
times  have  forgotten  her,  and  this  not  entirely  unin- 
tentionally. Think  how  alone  she  is,  alas!  in  her 
immense  grief,  and  remember  that  there  are  cruel 
lips  ever  ready  to  whisper  cruel  words  to  her,  to  tell 
her  of  bitter  insult  offered  to  her  beloved  and  unhappy 
child.  And  then,  if  you  reflect  that  the  silent  prayer 
has  come  to  me  from  her,  you  will  need  no  further 
aid  in  opening  the  jar  and  reading  the  hidden  message. 

"  Standing  as  I  do  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  it  is 
with  a  thrill  of  terror  and  of  hope  that  I  feel  the 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  323 

approach  of  dear  and  holy  souls  who  have  preceded 
me,  and  who  are  now  coming  to  meet  me.  This 
morning  at  the  altar  I  prayed  that  Divine  Mercy  would 
grant  that  I  might  soon  depart  in  my  turn,  bearing 
with  me  a  sweet  message  for  two  of  those  souls  that 
rest  in  the  Lord,  for  two  souls  who,  when  on  their 
earthly  journey,  sanctified  for  you,  my  dear  friend, 
a  house  standing  between  two  lofty  cypresses  on  the 
shore  of  a  lonely  lake,  and  near  a  poor  little  church, 
which  even  I  can  never  forget. 

"Your  affectionate, 

"DoN  GIUSEPPE  FLORES.  " 

It  was  indeed  a  touching  letter,  and  contained 
a  fund  of  gentle  comfort  which  its  writer  had  not 
suspected.  Was  not  Piero  already  disposed  to 
draw  away  from  Jeanne?  Was  he  not  already 
preparing  for  an  important  act  of  justice,  the 
sacrifice  of  that  wealth  his  parents  had  never 
touched;  and  was  not  this  the  act  of  a  worthy 
son,  was  it  not  a  message  of  joy  that  might  well 
be  carried  to  those  two  souls  resting  in  God? 
True,  this  to  his  father  would  have  seemed  in- 
sufficient; perhaps  to  his  mother  also.  And  it 
would  certainly  not  satisfy  the  venerable  Don 
Giuseppe!  Ah,  well!  If  only  he  had  never 
known  any  Catholics  of  a  different  stamp!  If 
only  he  had  not  been  surrounded  from  infancy 
by  so  much  Catholic  meanness,  both  intellectual 
and  moral!  How  could  he  help  feeling  that  his 
father,  Don  Giuseppe,  and  a  few  more  lofty  spirits 
— if,  indeed,  the  Catholic  Church  contained  any 


324  The  Sinner 

more  such — could  not  really  be  termed  Catholics; 
that  theirs  was  a  different  religion,  a  religion 
superior  to  narrow  Catholicism,  which  shrinks 
from  reason  and  is  a  slave  in  all  things  to  a 
despotic  and  deified  authority,  so  harsh  to  all 
who  stand  outside  the  pale,  so  shackled  with 
worldly  interests,  so  antiquated  in  spirit  as  well 
as  in  language?  Once,  at  Villa  Diedo,  he  had 
talked  of  religion  with  a  certain  French  writer  of 
genius  who  professed  to  be  a  Catholic,  but  whose 
conception  of  Catholic  dogma  was  so  broad  that 
Piero  had  exclaimed :  "  But  you  are  not  a  Catholic !" 
The  man  had  answered:  "  No,  I  am  not  a  Catholic 
in  the  generally  accepted  sense  of  the  word." 
Don  Giuseppe  Flores  was  extremely  prudent, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  did  not  interpret 
Catholicism  as  did  Zaupa  and  his  fellow-coun- 
cillors, nor  as  did  the  temporalists  of  the  Vatican, 
nor  even  according  to  official  theology.  Then 
why  do  not  such  men  as  he,  such  men  as  the 
Frenchman,  raise  their  voices?  Why  do  they 
not  lead  their  brothers  back  to  truth?  Why  do 
they  not  endeavour  to  reform  their  Church?  Why 
do  they  not  rise,  if  necessary,  against  the  despots, 
at  least  against  such  as  are  anonymous?  Piero 
had  said  as  much  to  the  Frenchman,  and  the 
answer  had  been:  "Only  saints  could  do  that." 
And  why  are  they  not  all  saints?  Why  do  they 
not  become  saints?  Is  it  then  so  difficult  to 
sacrifice  one's  possessions,  one's  pleasures? 

A  wave  of  pride  swept  over  him,  as  he  reflected 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  325 

that  this  was  precisely  what  he  himself  was  about 
to  do,  although  he  was  neither  a  saint  nor 
bound  after  all,  to  any  Church,  to  any  official 
creed. 


in 


Much  later  on  the  same  evening,  he  wrote  to 
his  legal  adviser  asking  for  an  appointment.  It 
was  a  sultry  night,  and  the  house  was  suffo- 
catingly hot.  Piero  felt  that,  owing  both  to  the 
heat  and  to  his  agitation,  he  would  not  be  able 
to  sleep  if  he  went  to  bed.  He  therefore  deter- 
mined to  carry  the  note  to  the  post-office  himself. 
But  first  he  took  from  his  valise,  and  re-read  for 
the  hundredth  time,  the  document  he  had  found 
in  the  portfolio,  and  which  had  been  the  cause 
of  his  writing  to  his  lawyer.  It  was  a  letter  in 
his  mother's  hand,  which  she  had  begun  on  the 
nineteenth  of  January,  1862,  nine  days  before  her 
death  and  had  left  unfinished,  and  in  which  she 
entrusted  a  dear  friend  with  the  care  of  informing 
her  son,  in  case  she  herself  should  die  during  his 
infancy,  that,  according  to  information  received 
from  his  poor  father,  the  Maironi  wealth  had 
been  derived  from  a  lawsuit  unjustly  won  against 
the  Ospedale  Maggiore  at  Milan.  The  last  words 
of  the  unfinished  letter  were:  "  I  hope  ..."  She 
had  surely  hoped  that  her  son  would  possess  a 
proud  and  strong  spirit,  and  it  was  her  son  who 
would  confer  with  Avvocato  X  on  the  morrow, 


326  The   Sinner 

and  who  would  commission  him  to  search  among 
the  archives  of  the  Ospedale  Maggiore  for  infor- 
mation concerning  this  quarrel  with  the  Maironi 
family.  He  also  intended  to  ask  the  lawyer  for 
an  opinion  as  to  what  the  verdict  would  probably 
be  in  case  of  an  appeal.  He  was  silent  concerning 
the  steps  he  proposed  taking  should  the  verdict 
be  in  favour  of  the  hospital,  nor  did  he  intend  to 
discuss  this  point  with  the  lawyer.  The  sky 
was  threatening,  and  his  steps  re-echoed  through 
the  deserted  streets,  but  dimly  illumined  by  the 
few  lamps  that  burn  all  night.  From  the  post 
he  strolled  slowly  towards  Piazza  Maggiore  moved 
by  a  vague  desire — now  that  the  die  was  cast — to 
muse  upon  the  future  there  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  in  the  presence  of  those  mighty  clouds, 
amidst  the  solemn  silence  of  the  sleeping  houses, 
where  he  felt  more  alone  than  in  his  own  room. 
He  felt  that  his  destiny  was  about  to  be  unrolled 
before  him,  that  a  great  change  was  about  to  take 
place  within  him,  that  his  old  presentiment  was 
about  to  be  fulfilled,  and  that  the  time  was  come 
when  the  path  which  the  Great  Unknown  had 
destined  him  to  tread  would  be  pointed  out  to 
him.  His  heart  swelled  and  throbbed  violently; 
throbbed  in  eager  anticipation  of  this  voluntary 
passage  from  wealth  to  poverty,  of  the  hard 
struggle  for  existence  which  was  one  with  the 
struggle  for  the  idea.  A  subtly  pleasant  sense  of 
pride  held  all  the  chords  of  will  and  of  energy  at 
tension.  He  paused  and  clenched  his  fists;  he 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  327 

could  have  sworn  that  his  eyes  glistened,  and  it 
was  at  this  moment  that  he  became  conscious 
of  an  essential  deficiency  in  Jeanne  the  lover,  for, 
loving  as  she  did,  with  the  spirit  rather  than  with 
the  senses,  she  had,  nevertheless,  been  unable  to 
become  one  with  him  either  in  the  highest  reaches 
or  the  lowest  depths  of  his  soul.  The  flames  of 
pride  and  of  intellectual  frenzy  had,  for  the  time, 
absorbed  all  the  heat  of  his  lower  life.  He  looked 
with  haughty  contempt  upon  the  danger  of 
falling  into  basest  sensuality  should  he  leave 
Jeanne ;  he  believed  he  was  now  for  ever  safe  from 
those  fevers.  He  did  indeed  recall  the  fallacious 
sense  of  security  his  loathing  for  the  sins  of  sen- 
suality had  given  him,  in  hours  of  mysticism; 
but  why  should  not  these  vicissitudes  of  passion 
finally  cease,  and  who  could  say  they  had  not 
already  ceased? 

He  banished  that  memory,  and  entered  the 
deserted  Piazza  Maggiore  opposite  the  spectral 
magnificence  of  the  great,  black  loggias  with  their 
staring  eyes,  with  which  a  glorious  master  of  olden 
days  has  surrounded  the  decaying  and  blind 
creation  of  a  still  more  ancient  colleague,  as  some 
humanists  have  surrounded  mediaeval  ideas  with 
dazzling  splendour.  He  reflected  that  it  might 
soon  be  his  lot  to  leave  for  ever  this  city  whose 
tutelary  genius  resides  in  those  marvellous  loggias 
and  in  the  delicate  and  lofty  tower  that  rises  beside 
them,  forming,  as  Carlino  Dessalle  once  said,  an 
exclamation-point  set  after  their  beauty.  The 


328  The  Sinner 

memories  of  five  and  twenty  years  rose  before  him, 
as  do  all  the  events  of  his  life  before  a  dying  man. 
As  in  a  lightning  flash  he  saw  once  more  many 
places  in  the  city  which  were  connected  with 
indelible  memories :  the  courtyard  of  Casa  Scremin, 
where,  as  a  boy,  he  had  played  with  the  son  of  the 
original  Giacomo;  the  cafe,  whither,  in  those  by- 
gone days,  they  had  been  wont  to  escort  him  on 
Sundays,  that  he  might  feast  on  ices;  the  country 
walks  wrhich  Don  Paolo  had  loved,  the  churches 
they  had  visited  together;  the  Seminary,  where, 
in  compliance  with  Don  Paolo's  wish,  he  had 
several  times  undergone  examinations  in  Latin 
and  Greek,  and  always  to  his  intense  anguish; 
the  rooms  in  which  the  happiest,  the  most  painful 
and  the  most  barren  moments  of  his  life,  had  been 
passed;  the  offices  of  the  Town  Hall;  the  hall 
where  the  Council  met;  and,  finally,  Villa 
Diedo! 

Villa  Diedo!  And  Vena  di  Fonte  Alta?  And 
his  promise?  He  would  go  there  for  a  few  hours 
only,  and  postpone  his  visit  as  long  as  possible, 
waiting  at  least  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  which 
would  make  it  the  middle  of  July.  It  would 
perhaps  be  wiser  not  to  go  at  all,  and  thus  loosen 
the  tie  still  more,  but  he  had  promised.  It  should 
be  nothing  more  than  a  short  call,  a  simple  greet- 
ing. Yes,  a  short  call,  a  simple  greeting;  but  the 
thought  of  this  call,  of  this  greeting,  which  might, 
perhaps,  be  the  last,  sufficed  to  deprive  him  of  all 
desire  to  continue  his  musings. 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  329 

IV 

Fancy  the  monstrous,  horned,  great-grand- 
father of  all  elephants  barring  the  broad  way,  his 
head  bowed,  his  flat  skull  stretched  forward  into 
the  sunshine  and  supporting  the  weight  of  an 
enormous  pyramid,  his  swelling  flanks  fading  into 
the  shadow  beyond.  Thus,  between  two  narrow 
valleys,  hewn  out  by  the  strokes  of  a  god,  does 
the  spur  that  bears  Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  stretch 
forward  from  the  base  of  Picco  Astore,  its  twin 
horns  facing  the  great  stone  quarry  of  Villascura. 
Towering  above  the  abyss  that  encircles  them, 
the  pine  forests  and  beech  groves  of  Vena  wave 
against  a  background  of  sky,  spotted  here  and 
there  with  pale  emerald,  where  the  fields  press 
them  asunder  and  overflow,  and  dotted  with  red 
and  white  where  small  houses  are  huddled  together 
in  groups.  He  who  contemplates  them  from 
the  top  of  the  sloping  and  soaring  Picco  Astore, 
or  of  the  lofty,  cloud-capped  mountains  of  Val  di 
Rovese  and  of  Val  Posina,  may  not  realise  their 
delicate  and  exquisite  poetry.  But  the  wayfarer 
who  threads  their  winding  depths  asks  himself  if, 
when  the  world  was  young,  this  was  not  the  scene 
of  the  short  loves  of  sad  spirits  of  the  hills  and 
of  gay  spirits  of  the  air;  if  the  earth,  in  obedience 
to  their  varying  moods,  did  not  transform  itself 
around  them  again  and  again,  now  forming  shady 
marriage-beds  or  leafy  couches  for  reposeful  con- 
templation, now  surrounding  them  with  scenes  of 


33°  The   Sinner 

melancholy  or  of  mirth,  of  great  thought  or  of 
merry  jest ;  which  changes  ceasing  when  the  lovers 
suddenly  vanished,  the  earth  retained  for  ever- 
more the  form  it  had  last  assumed.  Every  object 
bears  the  impress  of  a  sentiment,  of  a  personal 
idea  of  beauty,  which  moves  us  to  sigh  with  a  sad, 
indefinable  sense  of  the  absence  of  some  one  who 
must  once  have  passed  this  way,  and  whom  we 
should  have  loved.  The  scene  of  amorous  over- 
tures— a  tiny  field  spread  with  grassy  velvet,  and 
between  two  curving  wings  of  rock-strewn  soil, 
where  great  pines  once  towered — is  followed  by  a 
sloping  maze  of  thick  and  twisted  branches,  be- 
neath which  mossy  couches  lie  hidden  in  the  pale 
green  shadow,  which,  in  tone,  is  like  the  motionless 
waters  of  a  lake  in  a  distant  valley.  The  path 
that  follows  the  naked  shoulder  of  a  hill  in  search 
of  the  pasture-lands  in  far-away  hollows,  of  dis- 
tant watches  of  pointed  pines  drawn  up  in  line 
along  the  dizzy  summit  of  this  paradise,  slips 
down  from  these  heights  towards  the  rim  of  a 
great,  empty  cup,  sunk  in  the  bosom  of  the  fields 
as  if  moulded  by  the  whirling  of  a  mighty  tur- 
bine, at  the  bottom  of  which  some  love  to  lie  and 
contemplate  the  encircling  and  overhanging  crater, 
the  drooping  ferns,  the  clustering  hellebore,  the 
cyclamen,  and  far  up  above,  in  the  white  disk  of 
sky,  the  eternal  sailing  of  the  clouds.  In  the 
wandering  breezes  the  wayfarer  hears,  from  time 
to  time,  the  different  voices  of  the  different  trees; 
the  humble  and  the  proud,  the  tender  and  the 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  331 

stern.  He  sees  seats  of  white  stone  scattered 
about  the  woods,  isolated  seats  for  solitary  pon- 
derers, seats  in  groups  for  large  assemblies,  upon 
which  are  engraved  hieroglyphics  more  incom- 
prehensible even  than  the  language  of  the  trees, 
and  which  were,  perhaps,  the  work  of  ancient 
members  of  these  assemblies,  notes  of  bird-music 
fixed  upon  the  stone,  or  records  left  for  future 
generations  by  those  long  since  passed  away.  But 
above  the  shining  green  of  the  beeches,  above  the 
hollows  embosoming  the  pasture-lands,  above 
the  bare  shoulders  of  the  hills,  the  dominating 
thought  of  the  poem  is  revealed  at  every  step: 
the  sloping,  soaring  Picco  Astore;  while  round 
about  his  lofty  and  melancholy  nakedness  the 
great  cloud-capped  mountains  of  Val  di  Rovese 
and  of  Val  Posina  sit,  like  Job's  comforters,  en- 
wrapped in  cloaks  of  mist,  and  looming  in  the  dis- 
tance whenever  the  path  crosses  some  prominent 
ridge.  It  is  in  a  wild  ravine  of  Astore  that  the 
several  springs  of  the  Acqua  Barbarena,  the 
Fonte  Alta,  are  born,  and  flow  weeping  in  search 
of  one  another,  forming,  at  last,  a  joyous  union  in 
the  rocky  bed  along  which  they  course  for  a  time, 
only  to  separate  again,  and  ripple  away  with  gentle 
complaining,  to  the  scattered  hamlets  of  Vena 
and  to  the  garden  of  a  certain  lady  who,  between 
the  lecture  and  the  ball  at  Villa  Diedo,  had  been 
informed  by  Jeanne  of  her  intended  visit,  re- 
ceiving the  news  with  pious  misgivings,  and 
dreading  the  corrupting  effects  of  worldliness 


332  The   Sinner 

upon  her  Alpine  solitude,  should  Maironi  follow 
Jeanne. 

Near  the  church,  on  the  edge  of  Val  di  Rovese, 
there  stands  a  small  hotel  which  was  certainly  not 
built  by  the  spirits  either  of  the  mountains  or  of 
the  air.  The  lower  floor  is  nothing  more  than  a 
rustic  tavern,  where,  on  Sundays,  the  wine  is 
wont  to  ferment  and  overflow  in  song  and  rioting. 
The  creaking  wooden  stairs,  the  rooms  above  with 
their  floors  of  deal,  and  their  deal  partitions,  form 
a  homely  interior  in  which  one  is  glad  to  feel 
one's  self  alive,  all  the  more,  perhaps,  because  of 
the  funereal  suggestions  of  the  all-pervading  odour 
of  pine- wood.  During  the  Summer  modest  clients 
from  the  plains  assemble  here,  some  with  pale, 
anaemic  faces  or  impaired  digestions,  others — 
the  artists  and  poets — with  exceeding  light  purses. 
One  of  these  poets,  having  fallen  in  love  with 
Vena,  with  the  Acqua  Barbarena,and  with  Picco 
Astore,  comes  here  every  year,  and  has  bestowed 
a  name  upon  every  rock,  every  clod  of  these 
highlands,  names  which  no  map  sets  forth,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  have  found  favour.  This 
fact  may  explain  the  amazement  of  a  certain 
fiscal  engineer  who  came  to  Hotel  Astore  to  see 
Carlino  when  the  Dessalles  had  been  there  about 
two  weeks,  and  who  was  informed  by  the  maid 
that  Signor  Dessalle  was  not  in  the  house,  but  that 
he  would  probably  find  him  in  the  Wild  Boar's 
Lair! 

The  Wild  Boar's  Lair  is  hidden  away  among 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  333 

the  intricacies  of  a  wooded  slope  at  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  hotel  and  from  the  Villino  dei 
Faggi,  which  Signora  Cerri,  the  confidante  of 
the  spotless  Maestro  Bragozzo,  had  been  occu- 
pying with  her  family  for  the  last  twelve  days. 
Between  an  open  strip  of  steep  grass-land  and  a 
deep  gorge — the  Witches'  Caldron — where,  up- 
rising above  a  thicket  of  low  shrubs,  tall  fir  trees 
soar  in  all  their  glory  towards  the  clouds,  three 
boulders  jut  out  from  the  sloping  bank  like  the 
fleshless  chins  of  three  monstrous  old  men.  In 
the  middle  boulder  the  fanciful  poet  imagined  he 
could  trace  a  likeness  to  a  wild  boar's  snout.  To 
right  and  left  hang  the  two  ends  of  the  brief  semi- 
circle of  beeches  that  forms  the  Lair.  Two  young 
firs  flank  the  narrow  opening,  while  the  trunks 
of  two  more  outline  a  small  window  that  looks 
out  across  the  green  slip  of  grass-land  at  a  solid 
wall  of  low  and  stunted  beeches  in  full  leaf. 

Within  the  Lair's  ever  shifting  shade  through 
which  the  sun  was  glinting,  there  sat  talking 
Carlino  Dessalle,  Signora  Cerri,  Maestro  Bragozzo, 
who  was  the  Cerris'  guest,  Bassanelli,  who  had 
escaped  from  the  cares  of  government  for  a  couple 
of  days,  the  whimsical  poet,  and  the  notary  of 
Vena,  a  learned  man,  slow  both  of  step  and  of 
speech.  Signora  Cerri's  five  children  were  playing 
noisily  in  the  Witches'  Caldron. 

Suddenly  Jeanne  and  Maironi  appeared  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Lair.  Signora  Cerri  crimsoned. 
She  had  not  been  warned  of  Maironi's  presence  at 


334  The  Sinner 

Vena.  She  had  had  great  hopes  he  would  not 
come,  and  had  been  watching  Jeanne  carefully. 
Jeanne  went  to  Mass  at  the  parish  church  every 
Sunday  and  conducted  herself  with  perfect  pro- 
priety. She  visited  Signora  Cerri  almost  every 
day,  exhibiting  a  liking  for  her  that  amounted 
almost  to  affection ;  she  had  sought  in  many  ways 
to  gain  her  confidence,  had  made  friends  with  the 
children,  and  was  always  ready  to  discuss  farming 
and  politics  with  their  father.  In  a  word,  she  was 
evidently  delighted  with  these  surroundings  that 
were  so  new  to  her.  Simply,  but  plainly  indi- 
cating easy  circumstances,  merry  within  the 
carefully  guarded  limits  of  morality  and  Catholic 
orthodoxy,  these  surroundings  were  at  once 
Christian  and  modern.  The  young  matron  had 
no  idea  of  the  powrer  she  wielded  over  Jeanne's 
soul  through  her  own  great  and  shining  purity,  the 
gentleness  of  her  nature,  and  her  religiosity  which 
influenced  her  every  act,  but  which  was  devoid 
of  all  ascetic  and  moral  narrowness.  She  was 
much  gratified  and  somewhat  surprised  by  the 
seriousness,  the  good  intentions,  the  lofty  senti- 
ments she  was  continually  discovering  in  Jeanne. 
In  her  own  rectitude  and  inexperience  of  human 
vicissitudes  it  seemed  to  her  impossible  that  a 
person  bound  by  a  sinful  tie  could  display  so  much 
goodness,  and  she  imagined  that  her  friend  had 
repented,  that  the  tie  was  already  severed.  It  was 
therefore  difficult  for  her  to  hide  her  painful  agi- 
tation when  Jeanne  appeared  followed  by  Maironi. 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  335 

In  Jeanne's  eyes  there  shone  that  indescribable 
light  that  her  lover's  presence  always  kindled  in 
them.  Maironi  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  or 
take  part  in  the  general  conversation,  and  having 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  his  friends,  he  left  the 
Lair  and  strolled  towards  the  Witches'  Caldron. 
Jeanne  overtook  him  almost  immediately. 

"  Let  us  resume  our  discussion, "  said  she  softly, 
and  she  moved  slowly  forward,  thus  tacitly  in- 
viting him  to  follow.  "  If  we  should  all  seek  out 
the  origin  of  our  wealth,  don't  you  fancy  we 
should  all  find  that  some  part  of  it  at  least  was 
ill-gotten?  Besides,  after  all,  justice  is  simply 
a  matter  of  opinion !  Pardon  me,  but  is  there  not 
a  good  deal  of  sentimentality  in  all  this?  You 
yourself  could  do  so  much  more  good  with  your 
money  than  the  Ospitale  Maggiore  at  Milan." 

Instead  of  answering,  Piero  asked  hotly:  "How 
can  you  say  that  justice  is  simply  a  matter  of 
opinion?" 

"Of  course  it  is!"  she  retorted,  herself  dis- 
playing some  heat.  "And  this  case  is  a  proof 
of  the  truth  of  what  I  say!  You  believe  it  is 
right  for  you  to  give  up  your  possessions,  although 
this  act  is  in  direct  opposition  to  a  sentence  given 
by  competent  judges,  while  I  feel  that  it  is  unjust 
to  usurp  the  judge's  office.  Here  are  three  differ- 
ent ideas  of  justice — yours,  mine,  and  the  judges'." 

Hardly  had  she  uttered  the  words  when  she 
repented  as  usual,  and  begged  for  forgiveness 
humbly  and  with  despairing  tenderness. 


336  The  Sinner 

"  I  cannot  think  of  you  as  poor,"  said  she.  "  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  you  will  be  deprived  of  the 
comforts  to  which  you  are  accustomed.  I  myself 
would  gladly  live  in  poverty  in  one  of  these  huts 
here  if  only  you  were  not  deprived  of  the  fulness 
of  life,  and  of  the  means  of  obeying  the  generous 
impulses  of  your  heart  and  mind!" 

Then  she  begged  him  to  tell  her  exactly  what 
the  lawyer  had  said.  Piero  answered  coldly 
in  a  tone  that  betrayed  his  disinclination  to  con- 
tinue the  discussion.  The  lawyer  was  of  opinion 
that  if  the  Ospitale  Maggiore  had  lost  the  suit 
against  the  Maironis,  it  had  been  simply  in  con- 
sequence of  a  slight  mistake  in  the  wording  of 
the  will  of  a  certain  Marchese  Reyna,  a  cousin  of 
Alessandro  Maironi,  Piero's  great-grandfather. 

"  No  socialist, "  she  said  softly,  "would  do  \vhat 
you  propose;  and,  as  a  socialist.  .  . .  ' 

She  did  not  dare  finish  the  sentence  and  say  that 
a  socialist,  as  such,  would  be  justified  in  not  acting 
according  to  the  dictates  of  a  pious  reverence  for 
the  idea  of  property,  or  for  the  right  to  bequeath ; 
that  he  would  indeed  be  justified  in  not  favouring 
charitable  institutions  which,  by  relieving  the 
misery  produced  by  an  unjust  economic  system, 
help  to  keep  that  system  alive. 

"I  am  not  a  socialist  like  the  others,"  Piero 
said.  "  I  have  no  intention  of  applying  certain 
theories  to  my  own  advantage." 

Near  the  bottom  of  the  little  ravine  that  runs 
from  north  to  south  between  the  Wild  Boar's 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  337 

Lair  and  the  church,  Jeanne  paused  on  the  edge 
of  a  short  but  very  steep  slope  and  said:  "  Please 
give  me  your  hand. " 

She  seized  the  hand  that  was  stretched  out  to 
her,  and  pressed  it,  smiling.  Then  she  stepped 
down,  whispering:  "How  strong  you  are!" 

For  the  first  time  since  Piero's  arrival  she  used 
the  familiar  thou.  At  the  bottom,  when  she  was 
once  more  on  smooth  ground,  she  leaned  forward 
against  the  dear  supporting  arm,  enveloping  the 
man  she  loved  in  her  own  warm  and  perfumed 
atmosphere.  She  had  been  so  afraid  he  would 
not  keep  his  promise,  and  now  she  was  so  happy 
in  his  presence,  so  full  of  hope!  Opposite  them, 
on  the  lofty  summit  of  the  slope,  the  hotel  loomed 
white  through  the  fir  trees.  Piero,  pale  and 
silent,  had  already  turned  in  that  direction. 
"No!"  she  cried,  in  the  tone  and  with  the  pout 
of  a  fretful  child,  and  motioned  with  her  hand 
towards  the  path  that  leads  southwards  along  the 
ravine.  "  Bassanelli  is  at  the  hotel,  and  there  are 
many  others  besides.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what 
you  will  do  when  you  have  relinquished  all  your 
property."  And  she  could  not  repress  a  shudder 
at  the  thought  of  this  folly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Piero,  determined  to  make 
this  conversation  decisive.  "Let  us  go  on  then. 
Have  you  no  umbrella?" 

A  veil  had  fallen  upon  the  emerald  of  the  fields ; 
the  shadows  of  the  trees  had  vanished  in  the 
diffused  light  of  the  sun  that  was  concealed; 


338  The    Sinner 

the  dense  fog  that  had  come  smoking  up  from  the 
valleys  was  invading  all  the  upper  hollows  of 
Vena  and  the  tops  of  the  forests,  deadening  the 
sound  of  the  scattered  cow-bells  in  the  pastures, 
enveloping  and  darkening  the  slopes  of  Picco 
Astore.  It  seemed  to  Jeanne  that  a  damp  white 
cloak  was  descending  upon  the  soft  fields,  was 
enwrapping  Piero  and  herself  in  its  woolly  folds, 
was  cutting  them  off  from  the  world  of  human 
anxieties,  from  the  past  and  from  the  present, 
and  filling  them  with  a  sweet  sense  that  they  were 
souls  of  another  planet.  She  realised  that  an 
hour  of  supreme  importance  was  approaching, 
that  there  hung  in  the  balance  not  only  her  own 
fate  and  happiness — what  did  they  matter,  after 
all? — but  the  happiness  also  of  the  man  she 
loved,  the  man  who  was  being  led  astray  by  fatal 
dreams.  Timidly  she  passed  her  hand  through 
his  arm,  whispering:  "Do  you  mind?"  And  al- 
though his  "No"  had  a  cold  ring,  she  pressed 
her  lovely  form  tightly  to  his  side.  "Dearest!" 
she  murmured. 

At  that  very  moment  Piero  was  saying  to 
himself:  "  How  hard  it  is  for  her  to  understand!" 
Her  firm  opposition  to  his  ideas,  her  tenacious 
scepticism,  her  cold  reasoning  which  was  hostile 
to  his  generous  impulses — the  justice  of  this 
reasoning  he  was  often  forced  to  admit,  although 
he  did  so  most  unwillingly — and,  above  all,  the 
fact  that  she  had  no  word  of  admiration  for  the 
sacrifice  he  was  about  to  make,  were  gradually 


Vena  cli  Fonte  Alta  339 

loosening  the  tie  that  bound  him  to  her.  Now 
he  was  half  angry  with  her,  and  impatient  of  her 
loving  words  and  caresses. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said,  ex  abrupto,  and 
with  the  intention  of  putting  a  stop  to  her  ten- 
derness, "  I  am  not  going  to  relinquish  all  my 
possessions.  I  shall  keep  a  small  estate  of  the 
Maironis'  which  did  not  come  to  them  with  the 
Reyna  property,  and  the  house  at  Oria  which 
my  mother  inherited  from  her  uncle  Ribera.  I 
shall  be  poor,  but  not  in  want.  As  soon  as  the 
transfer  has  been  made,  I  shall  go  to  France  for 
study,  and  perhaps,  also,  go  in  for  some  manual 
labour.  That  will  be  the  first  step  towards 
living  up  to  my  opinion  of  justice,  towards  be- 
coming in  all  things  the  man  my  mother's  great 
and  peerless  soul  would  have  wished  me  to  become. 
Henceforth  my  earnest  endeavour  shall  be  to  in- 
carnate my  mother's  ideal.  She  would  rejoice 
to  see  me  detach  myself  from  a  social  class  whose 
members  refuse  to  admit  eternal  justice  because 
they  fear  the  sacrifices  it  may  enjoin  upon  them, 
or  who  make  of  justice  a  god  of  their  own  creating, 
with  whom  it  is  less  difficult  to  balance  accounts ; 
a  class  of  which  the  one  great  aim  is  enjoyment, 
enjoyment  day  after  day,  which  aspires  only 
to  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  At  the  first 
harsh  words  Jeanne  had  dropped  his  arm;  at  the 
last,  feeling  that  she  was  about  to  faint,  her  face 
deathly  pale,  her  eyes  half  closed,  she  stretched 


340  The  Sinner 

out  a  trembling,  groping  hand  seeking  for  his 
support  that  she  might  not  fall.  Terrified,  he 
threw  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  glanced  eagerly 
around,  but  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen.  The 
fog  was  thicker  than  ever.  He  stood  supporting 
her,  and  his  breath  came  hard  as  he  encouraged 
and  reproached  her  in  turn.  She  tried  to  push 
his  arm  away,  murmuring  incoherently:  "No, 
no!  Leave  me  ...  I  am  not  worthy  .  .  .  not 
worthy  .  .  .  !"  Still  clasping  her  waist,  Piero 
started  slowly  towards  the  hotel.  Poor  Jeanne 
had  a  horror  of  the  hotel.  "No,  no!"  she  mur- 
mured. Piero  entreated  her  to  rest  on  the  grass 
for  a  few  minutes.  "No,  no!  Take  me  to  the 
fountain,  to  the  f ountain ! "  she  moaned.  She 
seemed  to  be  regaining  her  strength;  her  voice 
was  stronger  and  more  firm.  Piero  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  whereabouts  of  this  fountain, 
and  Jeanne  was  not  able  to  direct  him. 

She  tried  to  walk  and  lead  him  there.  This  was 
easier  for  her  than  talking,  and  she  started  for- 
ward, leaning  on  his  arm,  staggering,  panting, 
stopping  to  rest  at  every  step.  She  would  have 
liked  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  could  only  fix 
upon  his  face  a  look  expressing  all  the  pain  her 
helplessness  was  causing  her,  a  look  he  would  never 
forget.  Then,  when  her  terrible  exhaustion  forced 
her  to  pause,  she  smiled  upon  him  with  infinite 
sadness.  Once  she  thought  she  heard  voices 
coming  towards  them  through  the  fog,  and  in  her 
dismay  made  a  desperate  effort  to  drag  herself 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  341 

from  the  path.  However,  the  voices  faded  away. 
"  Will  you  wait  a  moment?"  she  gasped,  exhausted 
by  her  fright  and  the  effort  she  had  made.  They 
passed  a  group  of  huts,  and  then  turned  to  the 
right  into  a  little  hollow  shaded  by  walnut-trees 
where  several  paths  meet,  and  one  of  the  trickling 
springs  of  Acqua  Barbarena  calls  out  in  a  weak, 
complaining  voice,  as  it  falls  into  the  basin  placed 
there  for  the  thirsty  cattle.  Piero  persuaded 
Jeanne  to  rest  on  the  edge  of  this  basin.  He  had 
no  cup,  but  caught  some  of  the  spring  water  in  his 
hands.  She  drank,  and  then  pressed  her  lips 
to  the  joined  palms,  sobbing,  with  dry  eyes,  and 
shook  her  head  without  raising  it  when  he  asked 
if  she  would  drink  again.  Then  slowly,  very 
slowly,  he  drew  his  hands  apart,  and  in  doing  so 
touched  her  face  lightly,  with  a  gesture  full  of 
pity.  She  quickly  hid  her  face,  and  seeking  for 
her  handkerchief  held  it  out  to  him,  still  covering 
her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  begged  him  to  dip  it 
in  the  water.  When  she  had  bathed  her  eyes 
she  sat  still  and  silent  with  bowed  head,  her  hands 
lying  clasped  in  her  lap.  He  was  casting  about 
for  a  word  of  comfort  to  speak  to  her,  and  kept 
repeating  in  a  voice  that  was  full  of  remorse,  that 
he  had  never  intended  to  cause  her  so  much  pain. 

"Will  you  let  me  follow  you?"  Jeanne  mur- 
mured. "  Will  you  let  me  follow  wherever  you 
may  lead,  without  ever  appearing  before 
you?" 

He    did    not    answer,    and    once    more     she 


342  The   Sinner 

questioned  him  with  the  smouldering  fire  of  her 
great  dry  eyes. 

"Jeanne!  How  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing 
if  you  disapprove  of  what  I  am  going  to  do? " 

She  would  have  thrown  herself  at  his  feet  had 
not  Piero  prevented  her  doing  so  by  force.  She 
grasped  his  wrists  and  clung  to  them,  talking  to 
him  with  laboured  breath,  her  face  straining 
towards  him,  her  gaze  fixed  upon  him  with  an 
expression  like  that  of  one  who,  at  the  point  of 
death,  seeks  for  hope  in  the  doctor's  eyes. 

"No,  no!  My  God,  no!  You  do  not  under- 
stand! You  do  not  understand!  There  are 
fatally  dark  places  in  my  mind,  and  sometimes 
when  I  contradict  you,  I  am  moved  by  a  sort  of 
evil  spirit  that  seizes  me,  that  makes  me  speak 
words  to  my  own  undoing!  But  I  admire  you 
so  much  in  what  you  are  about  to  do!  Indeed, 
indeed  I  do!  I  have  the  profoundest  respect  for 
your  faith  in  an  ideal  which  I  wish  I  could  share, 
but,  alas!  I  cannot.  I  feel  how  splendid  your 
determination  is,  how  grand  it  is!  I  would  give 
all  I  possess  if  it  could  help  you  in  your  studies, 
if  it  would  help  to  bring  about  the  triumph  of  your 
ideas,  the  triumph  of  what  you  call  absolute 
justice.  There  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  make! 
I  do  not  deserve  all  those  terrible  things  you  have 
just  been  saying,  indeed  I  do  not  deserve  them! 
I  do  not  love  riches  and  enjoyments.  I  do  not 
cling  to  the  surroundings  in  which  I  have  always 
lived — Signora  Cerri  can  vouch  for  that — I  do  not 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  343 

love  dress  save  for  your  sake;  for  even  when  you 
do  not  see  me  I  always  try  to  fancy  you  are 
present.  If  you  will  but  say  the  word  I  am 
ready  to  give  up  everything!  I  will  give  my 
brother  all  I  possess  and  come  and  serve  you,  if 
I  may.  If  not,  I  will  remain  near  you  and  work 
for  my  living,  and  then  perhaps  some  day  you 
may  pity  me!" 

She  paused,  and  dropped  Piero's  hands;  her 
beautiful,  eloquent  eyes  were  veiled  with  tears. 
Maironi  felt  the  presence  of  a  soul  he  had  never 
known  before,  whose  mighty  love  gave  it  strength 
to  withstand  its  own  deep  and  morbid  scepticism, 
while  the  white  light  of  purity  flashed  forth  from 
the  very  heart  of  the  clouds  that  enveloped  it. 

"At  first,"  Jeanne  resumed,  "the  idea  of 
leaving  my  brother  could  never  have  occurred  to 
me.  The  disharmony  between  us  has  made  you 
love  me  less,  while  my  love  for  you  has  been  ever 
increasing,  because  I  never  wished  you  to  become 
as  I  am,  but  longed  myself  to  become  like  you!" 

She  was  silent,  and  presently  raised  her  tearful 
eyes  in  anticipation  of  an  answer.  Piero's  gaze 
was  fixed  upon  the  slow  curling  of  the  fog  among 
the  leaves  of  the  walnut-trees  that  were  heavy 
with  moisture.  In  the  sadness  of  all  that  sur- 
rounded them  there  seemed  to  be  a  conscious- 
ness of  their  painful  silence. 

"Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!"  moaned  Jeanne  softly. 
"To-day,"  she  added  after  another  pause,  "if 
this  water  were  poison  I  should  not  ask  you 


344  The  Sinner 

whether  I  should  drink  of  it."  Piero  looked  at 
her  in  amazement,  but  hardly  had  she  said,  sadly 
and  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  He  does  not  even 
remember! "  when  he  recalled  Praglia  and  the  glass 
of  water. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  greatly  moved.  "I  do  re- 
member. Not  even  to-day  would  I  tell  you  to 
drink." 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  sighed,  "because  you  pity 
me." 

"Oh,  no!     Not  from  pity!" 

Jeanne  thrilled  with  hope,  but  presently  re- 
peated sadly:  "Yes,  yes!  It  is  only  pity!" 

Burning  words  seemed  to  rise  to  his  lips,  but  he 
only  said:  "Do  not  speak  thus!" 

Jeanne  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow,  and,  with 
her  forefinger,  traced  upon  the  water  the  word- 
Pity. 

Speaking  with  greater  composure,  her  glance 
fixed  on  the  surface  of  the  water  that  was  once 
more  smooth  and  unbroken,  she  said: 

"You  have  lost  the  poetry  of  love!  You  will 
fall  into  the  old  temptations  again;  you  will  seek 
love,  and  you  will  buy  it." 

"I  have  not  lost  the  poetry  of  love!" 

Another  eternal  silence  followed. 

Piero  looked  at  his  watch  and  observed  softly 
that  it  was  almost  half-past  three.  He  had  or- 
dered the  carriage  to  be  ready  at  four,  for  he 
wished  to  take  the  six  o'clock  train  at  Villascura. 
Jeanne,  who  had  not  been  aware  of  this,  started 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  345 

nervously,  but  immediately  controlled  herself. 
She  did  not  move,  however,  and  as  he  seemed  to 
be  waiting,  said: 

"You  go.     I  shall  remain  here." 

Her  composure  aroused  a  suspicion  in  him. 
He  had  heard  there  were  precipices  not  far  distant 
and  his  heart  was  full  of  vague  apprehensions. 
He  pressed  Jeanne  to  rise  and  accompany  him  to 
the  hotel,  but  she  would  not,  and  continued  to 
repeat:  "Go,  go!" 

"But  I  cannot  leave  you  like  this!"  he  said, 
and  added  tenderly:  "Come,  dear,  come!  Per- 
haps some  day  ..." 

"  Perhaps  some  day  ? "  she  cried,  her  face  shining 
with  love  and  joy" 

"  Perhaps  some  day  there  may  exist  between  us 
such  harmony  of  soul  as  to  justify  a  close  union. " 

Was  he  uttering  his  own  innermost  thoughts, 
or  had  his  vague  fears  led  him  to  speak  thus:1 
Once  more  Jeanne's  face  fell,  and  shaking  her 
head  incredulously,  she  murmured: 

"Pity!" 

He  cast  a  rapid  glance  around,  then  bent  over 
her,  and  pressing  his  lips  upon  her  hair,  whispered : 

"No,  dear!     Hope!" 

She  threw  back  her  head  to  hold  the  kiss  as  long 
as  possible,  \vhile  a  fleeting  light  of  joy  suffused 
her  face. 

"If  that  is  true,  if  you  do  really  hope,"  she 
said,  "  you  will  remain  until  to-morrow.  If  not, 
I  shall  believe  it  is  untrue!" 


346  The    Sinner 

He  had  felt  the  touch  of  that  soft,  fragrant, 
silky  hair ;  he  heard  the  gentle  offer,  and  his  heart 
stood  still.  In  a  voice  that  trembled  he  answered : 

"  I  will  remain." 

Jeanne  rose  with  a  deep,  deep  sigh,  breathed  a 
"Thank  you,"  and  gazed  at  Piero  as  a  happy 
mother  sometimes  looks  at  her  baby,  with  a  tender, 
joyous,  and  childish  expression;  in  former  days 
he  had  liked  to  have  her  look  at  him  thus.  He 
liked  it  still!  She  gave  a  little,  short,  soft  laugh, 
a  laugh  that  was  unconsciously  voluptuous,  and 
that  seemed  to  say:  "  I  see  that  flame  in  your  eyes 
which  was  once  so  unwelcome  to  me ;  now  you  will 
kiss  me  again,  I  know  you  will,  but  not  upon  the 
hair!"  And  slowly,  very  slowly,  the  young 
man's  face  did  indeed  approach  hers,  which  was 
composing  itself  slowly,  very  slowly,  and  was 
lifting  itself  gravely  towards  the  meeting. 

Then  their  two  souls  that  had  risen  to  their 
lips  uttered  a  thing  so  wonderful  that  when  their 
lips  parted  at  last,  their  eyes  could  not  bear  each 
other's  gaze.  It  was  not  the  first  time  Piero  and 
Jeanne  had  met  in  that  unspoken  thought,  but 
they  had  always  met  with  hostility.  Now  it  was 
no  longer  so.  Now  the  woman  knew  that  there 
was  one  repugnant  way  of  binding  her  lover  for 
ever;  the  man  knew  that  there  was  one  swreet 
way  of  riveting  his  chains  for  ever,  and  he  saw 
that  her  resistance  was  shaken.  Both,  at  once 
attracted  and  repulsed,  trembled  with  emotion. 

Meanwhile  an  unpleasant  wind  had  sprung  up 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  347 

and  was  blowing  the  fog  into  their  faces.  The 
herds  were  on  their  way  down  to  the  drinking 
trough,  and  their  bells  sounded  near  at  hand. 
Jeanne  and  Piero  started  towards  Rio  Freddo, 
the  goal  of  the  first  short  walk  all  newcomers  take 
at  Vena,  she  leading  the  way  in  silence,  conscious 
of  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  and  turning  her  head 
to  smile  at  him  when  that  gaze  became  so  piercing 
she  could  not  bear  it.  Little  by  little  the  fog 
lifted,  and  on  the  left  there  loomed,  black  and 
towering,  the  tragic  Picco  Astore,  while  in  the 
pale  sunshine  there  appeared  sloping  hollows, 
ridges  covered  with  soft  pastures,  gloomy  heights 
crowded  with  fir  trees,  and  the  grand  profiles  of 
the  mountains  of  Val  Posina.  Presently  the 
sunshine  burst  forth  on  all  sides  and  surrounded 
the  two  silent  figures;  the  drops  on  the  wet  grass 
glistened,  the  emerald  of  the  pastures  grew  more 
vivid,  the  bald  summits  of  Picco  Astore  were  red 
and  glowing,  and  the  damp  odours  of  the  hills 
were  strong  and  aromatic.  Jeanne  sat  down  upon 
a  low,  ruinous  wall  which  cuts  across  the  path 
at  the  point  where  it  leaves  the  fields  and  enters  a 
wooded  space.  Pale,  and  exhausted  by  the  last 
steep  ascent,  she  could  not  speak,  but  she  smiled 
as  she  looked  into  Piero's  face.  Near  them  was  a 
thicket  of  young  beeches  mixed  with  firs.  Jeanne 
glanced  at  it  and  sighed:  "  How  delightful  to  live 
here  together  for  ever,  and  forget  the  world 
beneath  us!  What  joy!  What  joy!"  She  waited 
a  moment  in  vain  for  a  word  from  him,  and 


348  The    Sinner 

finally  murmured,  her  eyes  still  downcast: 
"Have  you  nothing  to  say?" 

Piero  did  not  answer.  He  did  not  even  appear 
to  hear  her,  but  seemed  to  be  studying  his  own 
shadow  upon  the  grass.  She  arose,  allowed  him 
to  help  her  over  the  wall,  and  started  resolutely 
forward  through  the  woods,  he  following  close 
behind.  They  had  advanced  a  short  distance 
beneath  the  tangled  branches,  over  great  flat 
stones  hidden  in  the  moss,  and  intersected  by  the 
roots  of  the  firs  and  rhododendrons,  when  suddenly 
there  yawned  before  them  to  right  and  left  the 
horrible  Profondo,  the  Depths,  that  monstrous 
belt  of  rock  curving  and  receding  beneath  the 
fir-crowned  crests,  like  a  colossal  wave,  that  breaks 
and  is  flung  backwards.  Here  before  them  lay 
Rio  Freddo,  the  awe-inspiring  boundary  of  the 
green  paradise  of  Vena,  the  "  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death."  Jeanne  placed  her  foot  upon  a  rock 
that  jutted  out  above  the  abyss.  Piero  quickly 
threw  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and,  closing  her 
eyes,  she  let  herself  sink  backwards  against  his 
breast.  He  strained  her  to  him,  and,  still  in 
silence,  lavished  such  violent  caresses  upon  her 
that  she  was  terrified,  and  cried  in  a  pleading 
voice:  "No,  no,  no!" 

Then  suddenly,  and  after  a  struggle  with  him- 
self, the  young  man  desisted.  She  slipped  from 
his  arms  and  climbed  the  low  wall,  springing  from 
the  woods  into  the  open  field. 

Some  one  was  coming  towards  her  up  the  hill, 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  349 

and  while  still  at  some  distance  inquired  if  she 
had  seen  the  Signer  Conte.  It  was  the  coachman 
whom  Piero  had  kept  waiting  so  long.  Did  the 
Signer  Conte  intend  to  leave  or  not?  He,  the 
coachman,  must  go  back  at  any  rate.  Piero  tried 
in  vain  to  persuade  him  to  wait  until  the  morrow, 
but  finally,  having  settled  with  him,  dismissed 
him.  Maironi  turned  to  Jeanne. 

"Should  I  have  left  to-night?"  said  he. 

Her  eyes  fell,  and  she  did  not  answer. 

In  silence  they  went  down  the  hill,  she  serious, 
he  sad.  When  they  once  more  passed  the  foun- 
tain beneath  the  walnut  trees,  she  gave  him  a 
swift  glance  that  said :  "  It  was  here  it  all  began!" 
After  that  she  did  not  look  at  him  again.  Upon 
reaching  the  spot  where  the  path  turns  to  the  left 
towards  the  Wild  Boar's  Lair,  she  hesitated  a 
moment,  but  finally  took  the  one  that  mounts 
to  the  Villino  dei  Faggi,  and  leads  thence  to  the 
hotel.  Not  a  single  word  did  they  speak  until 
they  had  nearly  reached  the  villa.  Then  Piero 
asked  his  companion  if  she  were  really  angry 
with  him.  "  I  do  not  know, "  said  she,  and  glanced 
tenderly  at  him,  fearing  to  have  offended  him. 
She  saw  he  was  much  troubled,  and  anxiously 
hastened  to  reassure  him  .  "  No,  no,  dear!  I 
am  not  angry!  I  love  you  too  much  to  be  angry!" 

There  was  music  going  on  at  the  villa,  and 
Jeanne  paused  at  the  gate  to  listen.  It  was  a 
composition  for  violin  and  piano.  The  bow,  held 
by  a  powerful  hand,  was  making  the  instrument 


35°  The   Sinner 

discourse  in  mighty  language  which,  alternaing 
with  delicate  twitterings  and  whisperings,  seemed 
to  Jeanne  to  contain  both  reproof  and  exhorta- 
tion. It  suddenly  struck  her  that  if  Signora 
Cerri  only  knew,  she  would  talk  thus  to  her,  and 
that  if  it  had  been  her — Jeanne's — fate  to  draw  in 
religious  faith  and  moral  rectitude  with  her 
mother's  milk  as  Signora  Cerri  had  done,  she 
would  not  have  deserved,  or  rather,  would  not  be 
about  to  deserve  such  reproof.  The  children  who 
were  playing  in  the  garden  caught  sight  of  her, 
and  ran  towards  her  clapping  their  hands,  and 
begging  her  to  come  in.  Ah,  she  could  not  enter 
that  house  at  such  a  moment!  She  motioned  to 
them  to  be  quiet,  and  started  onward  with  Piero, 
just  as  the  violin  once  more  burst  into  burning 
discourse  which  now  seemed  what  the  composer, 
old  Tartini,  had  probably  meant  it  to  seem,  a 
bitter  shout  of  fiendish  triumph. 


That  evening  the  guests  at  Hotel  Astore  retired 
early.  Carlino  was  vexed  at  his  sister's  disap- 
pearance with  Piero  from  the  Wild  Boar's  Lair; 
he  was  vexed  that  she  should  have  gone  as  far  as 
Rio  Freddo  in  such  a  fog,  and  with  neither  cloak 
nor  shawl;  he  was  vexed  that  she  had  not  taken 
her  Kephir  with  him  at  the  accustomed  hour; 
Kephir,  that  powerful  Oriental  remedy  that  was 
to  make  a  Hercules  of  him  and  a  Juno  of  her; 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  35 i 

he  was  especially  vexed  that,  in  speaking  with 
him,  Bassanelli  should  have  dared  to  allude  to  his 
sister's  imprudence.  Deep  gloom  hung  over 
Bassanelli  himself,  who  had  come  to  Vena  with 
the  firm  belief  that  he  should  find  Jeanne  but  not 
Maironi.  After  their  return  to  the  hotel,  Jeanne 
had  not  been  able  to  remain  alone  with  Piero  a 
moment  before  dinner.  She  had  therefore  whis- 
pered hurriedly  to  him,  pressing  his  hand  passion- 
ately, almost  surreptitiously:  "You  will  not  leave 
to-morrow,  will  you?"  He  had  not  had  time  to 
answer,  or  perhaps  the  tumult  of  his  soul  deprived 
him  of  words.  After  dinner,  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  where  the  Dessalles  received,  and  dispensed 
tea  of  an  evening,  the  conversation  had  been 
desultory  and  not  altogether  agreeable.  Bassa- 
nelli had  introduced  the  subject  of  the  Brescia 
elections,  where  the  Government  had  triumphed, 
thanks  to  the  activity  of  the  ministerial  candi- 
date, and  to  him  alone.  It  was  plain  enough 
that  he  intended  to  allude  to  Maironi,  whose  blood 
began  to  boil.  Certain  vague  phrases  which 
Bassanelli  presently  let  fall  appeared  to  him  to 
point  at  other  help  that  had  been  vainly  solicited 
by  that  poor  creature,  Marchese  Zaneto,  wrho 
certainly  was  not  to  blame  because  he  possessed 
weaknesses  common  to  so  many.  Then  Piero, 
who  could  no  longer  contain  himself,  demanded 
that  Bassanelli  speak  plainly,  and  denied  his  right 
to  judge  private  actions,  the  reasons  for  which  he 
could  not  possibly  be  acquainted  with.  Bassa- 


352  The    Sinner 

nelli  retorted  sharply.  Who  had  said  his  word 
had  been  meant  for  Piero?  Carlino,  seeing  that 
his  sister  was  becoming  indignant,  and  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  she  refrained  from  siding  openly 
and  warmly  with  Maironi,  hastened  to  put  an  end 
to  the  discussion. 

"  Enough! "  said  he.     "  It  is  time  for  tea. " 
While  the  tea  was  being  disposed  of  only  a  few 
cold  remarks  were  exchanged,  and  then  all  with- 
drew to  their  rooms. 


VI 


Piero's  room  opened  upon  the  broad,  central 
corridor  of  the  hotel,  and  was  opposite  Jeanne's. 
Bassanelli  occupied  the  adjoining  room,  a  thin 
wooden  partition  separating  the  two.  Hardly 
had  Piero  left  the  Dessalles'  drawing-room  when 
the  jealous  Bassanelli  also  took  his  leave,  for  he 
was  anxious  to  ascertain  where  his  rival  slept, 
and  did  not  wish  to  ask  him  or  any  one  else  openly. 
He  was  detained  a  moment  on  the  narrow  stairway 
by  a  maid-servant  who  was  coming  down,  and 
therefore  failed  to  see  which  room  Maironi  entered. 
Pretending  not  to  recognise  his  own  door,  he 
looked  into  several  rooms  before  finding  the  right 
one,  whereupon  he  mumbled  an  apology,  and 
noisily  entered  his  own  apartment.  The  repeated 
disappearances  of  Jeanne  and  Piero  during  the 
day,  a  strange  light  of  feverish  excitement  in  their 
eyes  at  dinner,  certain  glances  they  had  exchanged, 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  353 

certain  moments  of  abstraction  he  had  noticed  in 
both,  had  aroused  a  bitter  suspicion  in  the  breast 
of  this  cunning  old  expert  in  nocturnal  adven- 
tures. He  was  determined  to  keep  awake,  to 
watch,  and  to  prevent. 

Piero  flung  himself  into  an  armchair  before  the 
open  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  stars  trem- 
bling over  yonder,  above  a  black  and  wooded 
peak;  he  was  picturing  to  himself  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  promise  that  had  been  uttered 
without  words,  that  had  passed  from  lip  to  lip, 
that  he  had  heard  there  on  the  precipice  of  Rio 
Freddo,  had  felt  in  Jeanne's  movement  as  she 
slipped  from  his  arms;  the  promise  he  had  read 
in  her  troubled  glance  whenever  their  eyes  had 
met,  and  which  the  pressure  of  her  hand,  that 
last,  long,  eloquent  pressure,  had  confirmed. 
Perhaps  what  was  promised  was  bound  to  be: 
it  was,  after  all,  simply  her  right  which  nature  was 
relentlessly  demanding.  His  seething  blood,  so 
full  of  silent  impulse,  subjugated  his  reason  and 
made  it  speak  thus.  Meanwhile  the  voices  of 
those  below  stairs  were  becoming  hushed.  The 
outer  door  was  closed;  heavy  steps  sounded  on 
the  stairs  and  then  above  his  head.  The  house 
was  asleep  at  last.  Piero  blew  out  his  candle. 
Refusing  to  listen  to  the  weak  reproaches  of 
conscience,  but,  nevertheless,  not  without  a  sense 
of  shame,  he  stretched  himself  on  the  floor  to  see, 
before  setting  the  door  ajar,  if  any  light  shone 
between  it  and  the  pavement,  and  if  the  petroleum 


354  The   Sinner 

lamp  in  the  corridor  was  still  burning.  It  had 
gone  out.  He  rose,  his  heart  beating  violently. 
While  making  these  preparations  he  became  ever 
more  engrossed  in  the  thought  that  Jeanne  also 
was  awake;  that  her  imagination  was  on  fire  like 
his  own ;  that  she,  like  himself,  was  listening  with 
a  wildly  beating  heart.  The  floor  creaked  slightly 
as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  immediately  heard  a 
noise  in  Bassanelli's  room.  He  listened  with 
bated  breath.  Bassanelli  was  walking  noisily 
back  and  forth  between  the  door  and  window. 
At  last  all  was  quiet  once  more.  Piero  waited 
some  time,  but  as  soon  as  he  ventured  to  stir 
again  his  neighbour  resumed  his  walk,  and  even 
opened  his  door  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
corridor.  Piero  was  aware  of  this  man's  passion 
for  Jeanne,  and  had  little  doubt  that  his  conduct 
was  inspired  by  jealousy  and  was  intended  as  a 
warning  to  him.  He  threw  himself  upon  the  bed, 
and  although  he  was  careful  not  to  move,  Bassa- 
nelli continued  from  time  to  time  to  give  evi- 
dence of  his  wakefulness. 

Between  one  and  two  o'clock  Piero  fell  into  a 
light  and  dreamy  sleep.  He  thought  she  was 
coming  to  him,  that  she  touched  his  door  with 
her  finger,  and  he  sprang  eagerly  from  the  bed 
to  let  her  in  and  warn  her  that  Bassanelli  was 
on  the  alert.  Hardly  had  his  feet  touched  the 
floor,  however,  when  he  concluded  he  must  have 
been  dreaming.  But  just  at  that  moment  there 
were  two  sharp  knocks  at  his  door.  He  started, 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alta  355 

and  without  pausing  to  ask  who  was  there, 
opened  the  door  very  softly.  In  the  corridor 
stood  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  half  dressed,  a 
candle  in  one  hand,  a  letter  in  the  other.  In  his 
bewilderment  it  was  some  time  before  Piero  could 
grasp  the  fact  that  the  letter  was  for  him,  and 
that  a  driver  had  brought  it,  who  was  ready  to  go 
down  again  at  once  should  the  gentleman  wish 
to  accompany  him. 

Speechless,  motionless,  and  with  staring  eyes, 
Piero  read  the  short  note.  The  proprietor  waited 
a  moment,  and  then  inquired  what  his  orders 
were.  Piero  roused  himself,  requested  him  to 
light  his  candle  for  him,  said  he  must  consider 
what  to  do,  and  that  meanwhile  the  driver  was 
to  wait.  When  the  proprietor  had  left  the  room 
he  read  the  letter  a  second  time.  It  was  from 
the  Marchesa,  and  ran  as  follows: 

"Sunday,  7  p.m. 
"DEAREST  PIERO, — 

The  director  has  telegraphed  to  Papa: — Phy- 
sical condition  very  alarming.  Mind  at  present 
perfectly  lucid.  Asks  to  see  parents,  husband,  Don 
Giuseppe  Flores. — We  are  starting  at  once.  Don 
Giuseppe  will  join  us  to-night.  Pray: 

"MAMMA." 

Piero  pressed  his  clenched  fists  to  his  eyes  so 
hard  that  his  arms  trembled.  Presently  he 
withdrew  them  and  stretched  them  slowly  aloft, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  light,  his  breath  coming 


356  The  Sinner 

hard.  Then,  as  if  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse 
of  his  will,  he  hastily  gathered  his  things  together, 
rushed  downstairs  and  called  the  driver.  He 
charged  the  hotel  proprietor  to  make  his  excuses 
to  the  Dessalles,  and  inform  them  that  a  summons 
from  town  had  obliged  him  to  leave  thus  suddenly. 
Then  he  jumped  into  the  little  cart  that  was  wait- 
ing before  the  door. 

Down,  down  into  the  darkness  he  went  behind 
the  slow-trotting,  jaded  horse,  perched  on  the 
crazy  cart,  beside  a  mute  companion.  Above 
him  the  woods,  the  pastures  with  their  paths,  the 
thickets,  the  fountains  that  knew  so  much  of  his 
secret,  and  Picco  Astore  itself  were  vanishing  for 
ever.  Down,  down  beneath  the  glistening  stars, 
now  following  a  bare  slope,  now  passing  black 
groups  of  narrow  cabins.  Above  him  the  house 
where  Jeanne,  all  unconscious,  lay  sleeping  is 
vanishing  for  ever.  Down,  down  behind  the 
jaded,  slow-trotting  horse,  through  a  grove  of 
sleeping  beeches,  the  vanguard  of  a  few  firs  that 
are  awake  and  watching,  and  along  the  curving 
brinks  of  precipices.  Down,  down  from  right 
to  left,  from  left  to  right,  with  the  haunting 
horror  of  the  betrayal  he,  in  his  selfishness,  had 
been  planning,  while  she,  poor  unhappy  soul,  was 
calling  him  to  her  bedside;  with  the  sense  of  a 
hidden  power  that  had  been  slowly  weaving  a 
net  about  him  in  his  blindness,  and  had  now  laid 
violent  hold  upon  him ;  with  the  ineffable  bitterness 


Vena  di  Fonte  Alto  357 

of  that  vain  word — "  Pray ! ' '  Down,  down  from  the 
cold  winds  of  the  heights  into  an  atmosphere  that 
grew  ever  more  stifling;  with  the  vision  of  his 
whole  sad  life,  of  his  mournful  goal  ever  before 
him.  Down,  down  from  left  to  right,  from  right 
to  left,  for  ever  and  ever,  behind  the  jaded,  slow- 
trotting  horse,  perched  upon  the  crazy  cart,  beside 
his  mute  companion.  Down,  down  to  the  very 
depths,  and  the  murmur  of  shady  streams;  the 
first  stage  of  the  journey  is  over. 

How  many  hours  more? 

Six. 


CHAPTER  VII 
IN  LUMINE  VITAE 


HE  reached  the  Asylum  shortly  after  nine 
o'clock.  The  doorkeeper  had  orders  to 
conduct  him  to  the  Director's  study.  This 
gentleman,  having  been  warned  of  his  arrival  by 
means  of  the  speaking  tube,  came  to  meet  him  on 
the  stairs,  repeating  "Well  done!  Well  done!" 
in  cordial  tones,  while  he  answered  Piero's  tacit 
question  with  a  sigh  and  a  gesture  of  doubt  and 
discouragement.  Then  she  was  indeed  in  danger? 
Alas,  yes,  she  was  in  danger.  And  her  mind? 
Her  mind  was  perfectly  clear. 

"Oh,  she  has  asked  for  you  so  often!"  the 
Director  added,  with  the  gentle  sympathy  of  the 
tender-hearted  physician,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
with  the  placid  smile  of  the  man  who  is  accus- 
tomed to  painful  scenes.  "She  longs  so  for  your 
presence,  poor  woman!" 

He  motioned  to  Piero  to  enter  his  study,  but 
Piero  knew  that  was  not  the  way. 

"How  is  this?"  said  he.  "Am  I  not  to  go  to 
her?" 

358 


In  Lumine  Vitae  359 

"Not  at  once,  if  you  please,"  the  Director  re- 
plied, smiling  gently.  "  Not  at  once.  I  have 
had  some  refreshments  prepared  for  you  in  my 
study.  Your  mother-in-law  it  was  who  thought 
of  it.  What  a  wonderful  woman  she  is!  What 
a  saint!"  Piero  protested  that  he  had  no  desire 
to  eat,  but  that  he  wished  to  see  his  wife  at  once! 
As  the  doctor  still  hesitated  he  began  to  suspect 
some  mystery,  to  fear  they  were  trying  to  hide  .  .  . 

"No,  no!"  the  Director  cried  emphatically. 
"Nothing  of  the  sort!"  And  he  went  on  with 
some  embarrassment,  placing  his  hands  on  Piero's 
arms,  and  gazing  intently  into  his  eyes. 

"  Now  I  will  explain  everything.  There  is  an 
old  priest  here,  whom  your  wife  expressly  desired 
to  see;  he  is  most  anxious  to  speak  to  you  before 
you  go  to  your  wife's  room.  The  Signora  Mar- 
chesa  wishes  this  also.  That  is  all." 

"Very  well." 

Before  sending  for  Don  Giuseppe  the  Director 
gave  Piero  a  summary  account  of  the  illness. 
The  patient  had  begun  to  fail  in  May,  and  had 
grown  rapidly  weaker  during  the  last  fortnight. 
Fever  had  set  in  on  Saturday  night.  At  the 
beginning  of  her  illness  the  invalid  had  talked 
incessantly  of  a  baby,  of  her  dear  baby,  that  had 
brought  peace  into  the  house.  The  Director 
apologised  for  his  seeming  indiscretion;  he  was 
simply  repeating  the  sufferer's  words.  Later  she 
had  talked  less  often  of  the  child,  and  at  last  not 
at  all.  Sunday  morning,  after  a  protracted 


360  The    Sinner 

silence,  she  had  asked  to  see  her  parents,  her 
husband,  and  Don  Giuseppe  Flores.  Her  tem- 
perature stood  at  103  at  the  time.  "  Poor  little 
woman!  She  was  very  anxious  to  leave  the 
Asylum  and  go  to  some  house  near  by,  but  I  did 
not  feel  justified  in  allowing  this,  on  account  of 
the  fever,  and  for  other  reasons  also.  She  al- 
luded to  the  matter  again  this  morning,  but  when 
the  old  priest — he  is  another  saint,  I  believe! — 
recommended  her  to  offer  the  sacrifice  of  her  wish 
to  God  in  expiation  of  her  sins,  she  at  once  con- 
sented. Yes,  yes!  Indeed  she  would  do  so! 
She  had  so  many  sins  to  atone  for,  she  said." 

Piero  pressed  the  Director's  hand  convulsively, 
and  then  the  physician  wrent  to  summon  Don 
Giuseppe. 

When  he  was  alone,  the  young  man  forced 
himself  to  give  his  attention  to  external  things, 
that  he  might  the  more  easily  subdue  his  emotions. 
He  went  to  one  of  the  windows.  It  was  already 
hot,  and  the  locusts  were  singing  in  the  blazing 
sun,  in  the  immense  sadness  of  the  lonely  country. 
When  he  felt  more  sure  of  himself,  Piero  approached 
the  door,  and  opened  it  a  little  way,  in  antici- 
pation of  Don  Giuseppe's  well-known  step.  What 
could  the  priest  have  to  tell  him?  He  listened 
attentively. 

Silence. 

Servants'  voices.  He  drew  back,  and  me- 
chanically leaned  over  to  look  at  a  book  that  was 
lying  open  on  the  Director's  desk.  It  was  Hamlet 


In  Luminc  Vitac  361 

in  the  original  English — the  theatre  scene.  Once 
more  he  opened  the  door.  Good  God,  those 
locusts!  Other  voices,  the  Director's  and  Don 
Giuseppe's  at  last!  He  began  to  tremble  and 
returned  to  the  window  to  compose  himself. 
When  he  once  more  faced  about,  the  old  priest,  with 
his  broad  and  venerable  brow,  his  dark  eyes,  so 
solemn  and  gentle,  stood  before  him,  alone. 
Silently  he  spread  wide  his  arms,  Piero  stretched 
out  his  own,  and  flung  himself  upon  the  old  man's 
neck.  Don  Giuseppe  was  the  first  to  free  himself 
from  this  silent  embrace,  and  placing  his  hands  on 
Piero's  shoulders,  told  him,  in  a  low  voice,  that 
he  would  find  the  invalid  in  a  most  astonishing 
frame  of  mind.  She  was  convinced  that  she  must 
die,  but  was  overflowing  with  gratitude  to  God, 
and  with  tenderness  for  her  dear  ones.  In  ex- 
pressing these  sentiments  she  exhibited  great 
elevation  of  spirit;  and  her  reflections  upon  her 
past  and  present  state  were  most  acute,  as  were 
also  her  counsels  to  her  parents,  and  her  obser- 
vations concerning  what  was  said  and  done  about 
her.  "Oh,  it  is  wonderful!"  Don  Giuseppe's 
voice  grew  softer  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes  dilated  and 
brightened,  and  his  words  were  accompanied  by 
gestures  that  betrayed  his  emotion.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  he  was  amazed  to  have  found 
an  Elisa  so  different  from  the  Elisa  he  had  known 
at  Casa  Scremin. 

He  seated  himself  upon  the  sofa  placed  there 
for  the  use  of  visitors,  and  drew  Maironi  down 


362  The    Sinner 

beside  him.  Then  he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
eyes. 

"Listen,"  said  he. 

With  downcast  eyes,  many  shakes  of  his  head, 
and  a  few  disjointed  words,  he  appeared  to  be 
inwardly  debating  how  best  to  introduce  what 
he  had  to  say.  "It  is  my  duty  to  inform  you  of 
something  .  .  ."  he  resumed  at  last,  with  his 
familiar  gesture  of  fingers  pressed  to  brow  as  if 
to  force  from  it  the  difficult  words  he  must  speak. 

Having  found  his  way,  he  went  on  with  greater 
ease,  but  with  voice  and  face  pervaded,  as  it  were, 
by  the  emotions  which  the  recital  of  these  circum- 
stances of  the  past  was  reawakening  in  him. 

"She  received  the  Viaticum,"  said  he,  "at  five 
o'clock  this  morning,  with  all  the  sweet  composure 
of  an  angel.  Then,  after  a  few  moments  of 
meditation,  she  begged  her  parents  to  leave  her 
alone  with  me." 

At  this  point  Don  Giuseppe  encircled  Piero's 
shoulder  with  his  arm,  and  smiled,  his  eyes  wet 
with  tears.  "She  talked  to  me  of  you,"  he  said. 
Piero  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"It  would  appear,"  Don  Giuseppe  resumed 
with  a  sigh,  "that  either  the  assistants  or  the 
nurses — who  can  tell? — hearing  her  rave,  and 
never  for  a  moment  suspecting  that  she  might 
understand,  have  talked  among  themselves,  in 
her  presence  ...  of  things  which  the  poor  girl 
should  never  have  known.  She  heard  and  under- 
stood everything,  and  she  remembers  it  all,  and 


In  Lumine  Vitae  363 

has  repeated  it  to  me.  You  may  fancy  how  I 
strove  to  reassure  her,  to  contradict  these  reports! 
But  she  checked  me  at  once,  saying:  '  Do  not  say 
so!  Do  not  say  so!  I  know  it  is  true!  I  can 
see  by  your  eyes  it  is  true!'  She  inquired  if  the 
woman  were  free,  and  was  greatly  distressed  upon 
learning  that  she  is  not.  She  asked  me  if  I 
thought  you  would  come,  and  if  I  believed  you 
would  listen  to  a  few  words  of  pardon,  of  en- 
treaty from  her.  I  told  her  I  knew  you  would. " 

Don  Giuseppe  paused.     Piero  was  weeping. 

"Good  God,  Don  Giuseppe!  Can  you  not  do 
something  to  spare  her  this?  Can  you  not  tell 
her  that  I  consider  her  words  as  already  spoken, 
as  already  heard,  can  you  not  say  everything  that 
can  be  of  any  consolation  to  her,  in  my  name?" 

Don  Giuseppe  laid  his  hand  upon  Piero's  knee 
and,  without  looking  at  him,  smiled  faintly  once 
more;  it  was  a  sad  smile,  but  different  from  the 
first.  He  sighed,  and  softly  murmured  a  few 
disjointed  words  of  doubt,  words  which  Piero  took 
to  mean :  "Is  it  not  better,  for  certain  reasons  we 
must  not  mention, that  you  yourself  should  speak? " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  A  servant 
announced  the  arrival  of  the  Professor,  who  had 
been  summoned  from  Bologna  by  telegraph. 


ii 


It  was  some  distance  from  the  Director's  study 
to  the  small  private  apartment  where  poor  Elisa 


364  The    Sinner 

had  suffered  so  long,  and  now  lay  dying.  There 
were  stairs  to  go  up,  and  stairs  to  go  down,  long 
corridors  to  traverse,  and  courtyards  to  cross, 
where  quiet-looking,  well-dressed  people  were 
walking  about,  many  of  whom  bowed  respectfully 
to  Don  Giuseppe.  One  of  these,  an  old  gentleman 
of  very  distinguished  bearing,  recognised  Maironi, 
for  the  Director  had  once  introduced  them,  and 
detained  him  a  moment. 

"How  is  your  wife?  I  fear  she  is  suffering 
greatly,  poor  lady!  Yes,  yes,  fidelity  is  a  virtue 
of  the  feminine  gender,  it  could  not  possibly  be 
masculine!  They  say  we  are  all  mad  here,  but 
we  know  everything  about  everybody.  There 
are  indeed  those  how  really  do  speak  most  im- 
prudently! But  we  must  have  patience  with 
them!  Thank  God,  I  am  no  longer  in  that  con- 
dition, although  I  admit  I  was  at  one  time.  I 
see  you  are  in  the  company  of  the  Holy  Ghost; 
I  beg  you  both  to  tell  the  Director  how  rationally 
I  speak  and  that  it  is  a  sin  to  keep  me  here  any 
longer!" 

The  Director,  who  was  not  far  distant,  heard 
this  speech,  and  promising  the  old  gentleman  to 
discharge  him  shortly,  advised  him,  meanwhile, 
to  go  and  have  his  breakfast.  The  unhappy  man 
obeyed  in  silence,  cowed,  like  some  inferior  being, 
by  a  half  angry,  half  fearful  sense  of  authority. 
The  Director  joined  Don  Giuseppe  and  the  as- 
tonished Piero,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  a  calm, 
philosophic  tone  of  Hamlet,  which  he  said  he 


In  Lumine  Vitae  365 

was  then  reading,  praising  Shakespeare's  mar- 
vellous gift  of  divination  in  representing  the 
lunacy  of  this  most  strange  prince,  who  feigns  in- 
sanity, and  is  all  unconscious  that  he  is  indeed 
not  only  a  neurasthenic,  but  also  distinctly 
deficient. 

Upon  the  short  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the 
invalid's  little  apartment  they  met  Marchesa 
Nene,  who  welcomed  her  son-in-law  with  a  quiet 
smile,  and  with  something  of  determination  on 
her  face  and  in  her  voice,  although  she  succeeded 
but  ill  in  subduing  and  hiding  the  intense  ex- 
citement that  kept  her  ever  moving.  Elisa 
wished  to  see  him  for  a  few  minutes  at  least,  before 
receiving  the  Professor  from  Bologna.  He  must 
make  haste!  It  was  evident  the  Marchesa  wished 
to  avoid  all  expressions  of  affection,  all  tears,  and 
that  she  was  silencing  her  own  anguish  by  an 
heroic  effort,  in  order  that  all  might  be  quiet 
about  the  sufferer,  and  that  there  might  be  no 
confusion.  She  had  sent  the  whining  Zaneto 
away  to  rest.  She  drew  away  from  her  son-in-law 
who  wished  to  embrace  her,  saying:  "Come, 
come!  You  must  be  brave!  You  must  be 
strong!"  precisely  as  if  she  had  been  addressing 
the  most  devoted  of  husbands. 

She  preceded  him  into  the  warm,  dark,  and 
silent  chamber,  that  was  sanctified  by  suffering, 
and  murmured  with  smiling  tenderness :  "  Piero 
is  here,  dear!  But  only  for  a  moment,  only  for 
a  moment,  you  know,"  and  then  she  stood  aside. 


366  The    Sinner 

He  entered,  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  could 
but  just  distinguish  the  pale  whiteness  of  the  bed, 
the  dim  figure  of  the  nursing-sister,  who  had 
risen  to  her  feet.  Then  he  heard  a  sweet  but 
feeble  voice  saying:  "Open  the  blinds  a  little," 
and  while  the  Marchesa  added:  "Just  a  little, 
Sister;  just  a  very  little  way,  you  know,"  he 
crossed  softly  to  the  bedside,  and  saw  her. 

He  had  not  been  so  near  her  for  almost  three 
years,  and  she  now  appeared  to  him  completely 
transfigured.  Her  skin,  which  had  been  pink 
and  white,  had  assumed,  beneath  the  flush  of  the 
fever,  the  warm  pallor  of  ivory;  her  nose  had 
^rown  thinner,  her  eyes  looked  much  larger, 
much  darker,  and  more  brilliant.  Never  had 
that  face  been  so  lovely,  so  full  of  soul. 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him,  took  his 
head  between  her  hands  and  drew  him  down  to 
her,  whispering,  with  her  lips  upon  his:  "Thank 
you!  Thank  you!"  while  he  kissed  her  gently, 
almost  afraid  to  touch  her. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  she  said  with  great 
difficulty,  so  laboured  was  her  breathing.  He 
raised  his  face,  and  pushing  his  hair  gently  back 
from  his  forehead,  she  gazed  and  gazed  at  him 
with  her  great,  dark,  earnest  eyes,  which  shone 
now  with  grief,  now  with  tenderness,  now  with  a 
smile  full  of  peace. 

"That  will  do,  Elisa;  that  will  do!"  her  mother 
whispered. 

The  sick  woman  turned  her  face  towards  the 


In  Lumine  Vitae  367 

right,  and  pressed  her  lips  upon  her  husband's 
arm. 

"Good-bye,"  said  she.  "You  will  come  back 
later,  will  you  not?  I  have  so  much  to  say  to 
you!" 

Piero  leaned  over  her  and  kissed  her  little  ear 
that  was  uncovered,  murmuring  into  it:  "I  am 
yours  for  ever,  dearest!" 

She  closed  her  eyes  in  her  immense  joy,  and 
answered ; 

"In  the  Lord!" 

in 

In  the  course  of  the  day  there  was  some  im- 
provement in  her  condition.  The  Professor  from 
Bologna  had,  of  necessity,  tired  his  patient  with 
his  questions  and  auscultations,  after  which  he 
had  ordered  perfect  rest.  His  diagnosis  coincided 
with  that  of  the  two  other  physicians  who  were 
attending  her,  while  his  prognosis  was  less  dis- 
couraging. The  great  danger  was  that,  upon 
the  extinction  of  the  fever,  the  patient  might 
succumb  to  exhaustion,  but  the  Professor  placed 
great  reliance  on  the  recuperative  powers  of  a 
youthful  organism,  as  well  as  upon  the  many 
resources  offered  by  science.  He  had  delivered 
his  opinion  in  the  little  drawing-room  adjoining 
the  invalid's  bedroom,  addressing  most  of  his 
conversation  to  the  person  who  had  been  pre- 
sented to  him  as  her  husband.  Piero  shrank 


368  The    Sinner 

under  his  gaze,  shrank  from  accepting  this  mark 
of  preference  which  he  did  not  deserve,  and  longed 
to  say  to  him,  "Speak  to  her  mother!  I  am  not 
worthy!"  He  even  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to 
show  his  real  emotion,  and  was  almost  ashamed 
of  it,  as  if  it  had  been  hypocritical.  The  Pro- 
fessor would  not  leave  until  evening.  The  news 
of  his  coming  had  at  once  spread  in  the  town,  and 
three  or  four  applications  for  consultations  had 
reached  the  Asylum  before  his  arrival.  Piero 
wished  him  to  see  his  wife  again,  and  left  the 
drawing-room  with  him  that  he  might  speak  to 
him  alone  outside,  with  all  the  consuming  anxiety 
that  burned  within  him,  and  which  he  felt  bound 
to  hide  before  the  others.  He  besought  the 
Professor  to  tell  him  the  whole  truth.  The 
specialist  assured  him  that  he  had  already  done 
so,  and  had  nothing  to  add  to  what  he  had  just 
said.  "We  must  hope!  We  must  hope!  I  see 
you  both  deserve  that  she  should  recover,  poor 
girl!"  said  he.  Piero  seized  the  worthy  man's 
hands  and  pressed  them  warmly,  while  the  Pro- 
fessor became  more  and  more  convinced  of  his 
own  shrewdness,  and  of  the  accuracy  of  the  moral 
diagnosis  he  had  so  easily  improvised. 

Towards  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  the  invalid 
was  sleeping,  watched  over  by  her  mother.  In 
the  little  drawing-room  Don  Giuseppe  was  reading 
his  breviary,  and  Zaneto,  who  was  much  reas- 
sured was  talking  to  Piero  in  an  undertone,  recall- 
ing old  memories  in  connection  with  the  Asylum, 


In  Luminc  Vitae  369 

memories  of  an  aunt  of  his,  who  had  been  con- 
fined there  for  some  time  in  her  youth.  Finally 
he  brought  the  conversation  round  to  the  country 
home  his  wife  had  been  preparing  for  their  daugh- 
ter; he  considered  the  expediency  of  spending 
the  autumn  there,  and  then  discussed  the  choice 
of  a  residence  for  the  winter.  Having  thus 
strewn  roses  upon  the  threshold  of  a  thorny 
subject,  he  ventured  to  put  one  foot  cautiously 
forward. 

"I  have  heard  rumours,"  he  said,  "of  certain 
doubts  you  entertain  concerning  the  origin  of  your 
fortune,  doubts  tending  to  prevent  an  act  of  ab- 
solute proprietorship  on  your  part.  I  am  not 
saying  this  with  any  hidden  purpose,  I  assure 
you.  I  mention  the  subject  solely  for  your  own 
good.  It  is  a  matter  of  which  I  have  some 
knowledge,  for  when  I  was  a  lad,  and  also  after  I 
had  grown  to  manhood,  I  often  heard  it  discussed 
in  my  own  house.  It  is  a  question  about  which 
there  can  be  no  question,  after  all!  It  arose  from 
the  annulling  of  a  will  for  some  inaccuracy  of 
form,  of  I  know  not  what  nature;  of  date,  signa- 
ture, or  something  else.  Now,  it  may  be  generous 
to  overlook  an  inaccuracy  of  form,  but  it  is  not 
just.  Inaccuracy  of  form  must  necessarily  throw 
a  doubt  upon  the  accuracy  of  the  substance.  As 
any  conscientious  business  man  ..." 

"  No  one  of  these  people  will  ever  share  my 
views,"  thought  Piero,  and  at  the  same  time  he 
reflected    that    his   pious   father-in-law   and    the 
24 


370  The    Sinner 

sceptical  Jeanne  travelled  by  different  roads  to 
meet  at  last  at  the  same  selfish  conclusion. 

Marchesa  Nene's  head  appeared  at  the  door. 
Elisa  was  awake  now,  and  wished  to  see  Piero. 
As  her  son-in-law  entered  the  room  she  left  it, 
saying,  with  a  smiling  assumption  of  complacency, 
that  Elisa  had  put  her  out.  In  an  undertone  she 
added :  "  Not  too  long,  you  know!  Not  too  long! " 
The  Sister  had  already  left  the  room.  The 
invalid  motioned  to  her  husband  to  sit  down  near 
the  bed,  on  the  side  opposite  the  window,  and, 
smiling,  stretched  out  her  hand.  He  kissed  the 
little  ivory  hand  that  was  so  hot  and  dry,  and 
kept  it  between  his  own. 

"You  are  better,  dear,  are  you  not?" 
She  formed  a  kiss  with  her  lips  and  murmured, 
as  if  she  had  not  heard : 

"I  am  so  sorry  now  I  never  had  a  child!" 
Piero  protested.     Why  did  she  say  such  things? 
Did  she  not  know  she  was  going  to  recover?     That 
the  doctors  were  sure  of  it?     The  sick  woman 
did  not  answer,  but  gazed  at  him  as  she  stroked 
his  hands,  and  presently  said,  in  a  voice  so  low 
he  could  hardly  hear  the  words: 
"To-morrow  evening  ..." 
"What  about  to-morrow  evening?" 
"  Between  seven  and  nine, "  she  said. 
Piero's  heart  stood  still.     Was  her  mind  once 
more  becoming  clouded?     He  sought  to  call  her 
to   herself. 
"Elisa!" 


In  Lumine  Vitae  371 

She  looked  fixedly  into  his  face  for  a  moment 
and  then,  letting  her  eyes  sink  to  his  hands,  and 
continuing  the  loving  movement  of  her  own,  she 
opened  her  lips.  Piero,  who  did  not  understand, 
bent  over  her,  and,  while  she  still  gazed  seriously 
at  his  hands,  and  stroked  them,  he  heard  the 
faintly  breathed  words: 

"To-morrow  evening,  between  seven  and  nine 
o'clock,  I  shall  leave  you." 

His  blood  froze  in  his  veins ;  he  thought  of  the 
wonderful  prescience  of  the  dying,  and  for  the 
moment  could  not  utter  a  word.  Presently, 
however,  he  protested  passionately.  With  her 
finger  upon  her  lips  she  signed  to  him  to  be  silent, 
as  if  he  were  crying  out  against  God  Himself, 
whose  will  this  was.  She  raised  her  head  a  little 
higher  upon  the  pillow,  let  her  hand  rest  upon  his 
arm,  and  gazed  at  him  anxiously  with  supplication 
in  her  eyes.  Did  he  not  think  that  God  had 
already  granted  her  enough? 

"  The  Lord  has  been  very  merciful,  dear,  to  wake 
me,  to  call  me  to  myself,  to  have  granted  me  the 
immense  joy  of  having  you  all  with  me,  and  that 
saintly  Don  Giuseppe  also,  who  comforts  me  so 
tenderly.  Hush,  dear!  Hush!" 

She  paused  and  drew  him  towards  her,  and, 
her  little  childish  face  wearing  an  expression  of 
remorse,  murmured,  with  downcast  eyes: 

"I  was  not  a  good  wife  to  you — hush,  dear, 
hush! — no,  no.  But  indeed  I  did  love  you!  Oh( 
so  much!  only  I  did  not  know  how  to  show  it! 


372  The    Sinner 

You  must  have  thought  me  cold,  and  it  was  all 
dreadfully  unfortunate;  I  can  see  that  now." 

She  threw  both  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
whispered  in  his  ear: 

"  Dearest,  shall  we  forgive  each  other  every, 
thing,  everything,  everything?  Even  what  you 
do  not  know  about  me,  and  what  I  do  not  know 
about  you?" 

Gently  he  removed  the  poor,  thin  arms  from 
his  neck,  and  cast  himself  weeping  upon  his  knees, 
pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips.  Elisa  was  weeping 
also.  At  that  moment  the  Marchesa,  anxious 
that  Piero  should  not  remain  too  long,  opened 
the  door,  intending  to  call  him.  She  saw,  and 
withdrew  in  silence.  Don  Giuseppe  raised  his 
eyes  from  his  breviary,  and  believing  she  had  just 
come  from  the  sick-room,  asked  how  Elisa  was. 
She  answered  with  her  usual  smile:  "I  do  not 
know.  I  see  I  am  not  wanted."  And  then  she 
also  shed  a  few  gentle  tears. 

Meanwhile  the  invalid  had  obliged  her  husband 
to  rise,  and  was  striving  to  speak  again. 

"  You  are  so  young,  and  so  alone!     In  time  ..." 

Her  grief  choked  her,  and  she  could  not  finish 
the  sentence.  At  last  she  once  more  encircled  his 
neck  with  her  arms,  and  said  faintly. : 

"  You  will  not  forget  me  ?  You  will  pray  for  me 
even  then?  Do  you  still  pray  as  you  once  did, 
dear?" 

Piero  did  not  answer. 

" Do  you  no  longer  pray  as  you  once  did?" 


In  Lumine  Vitae  373 

Still  no  answer. 

"You  no  longer  pray?  Have  you  lost  your 
faith?" 

He  could  not  lie  to  her,  although  he  was  sorely 
tempted. 

"  Forgive  me ! "  he  entreated  despairingly.  "  For- 
give me ! ' ' 

Only  the  sufferer's  laboured  breathing  broke 
the  mortal  silence  that  ensued.  At  last  she 
clasped  her  hands,  saying  softly 

"Oh,  Piero!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  that  were  full  of  anguish, 
praying  silently  and  with  intense  fervour  from 
the  very  bottom  of  her  heart,  and  offering  for 
him  all  her  present  suffering,  all  she  expected  to 
suffer  in  the  future,  in  the  course  of  her  own 
purification. 

"Lord,  Lord!"  she  thought,  "do  not  let  me  die 
like  this!"  But  immediately  she  repented  of  her 
want  of  resignation,  and  hastened  to  add,  in  her 
heart:  "Thy  holy  will  be  done!" 

Presently,  in  a  weak  voice,  she  called. 

"Dearest!" 

She  asked  for  her  handkerchief.  When  he  had 
given  it  to  her,  she  tried  to  carry  it  to  her  eyes, 
but  her  hand  fell  back  upon  the  sheet. 

"  I  have  not  strength  enough, "  she  said,  and 
opened  her  hand. 

Then  trembling,  heart-broken,  and  seeking  in 
vain  for  a  word  of  comfort  for  her,  he  took  the 
handkerchief  and  dried  her  tearful  eyes.  With  a 


374  The    Sinner 

great  effort,  the  poor  girl  pronounced  the  words: 
"Thank  you.     Call  Mamma." 

The  Scremins,  Don  Giuseppe  Flores  and  Maironi 
had  lodgings  at  a  small  inn  near  the  Asylum.  Don 
Giuseppe  and  Zaneto  withdrew  after  the  Pro- 
fessor's last  visit.  He  found  the  fever  still  very 
high,  the  action  of  the  heart  weak,  and  the  patient 
in  a  state  of  painful  restlessness,  but  he  assured 
the  watchers  that  there  was  no  immediate  danger. 
The  Marchesa  was  prepared  to  spend  the  night 
with  the  Sister  in  her  daughter's  room,  while 
Piero  remained  in  the  little  drawing-room,  and 
stretched  himself  upon  the  sofa,  in  the  dark.  He 
was  weary  and  his  head  was  heavy  with  sleep, 
but  he  would  not  leave  the  Asylum.  Towards 
two  o'clock  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  a  perfect 
chaos  of  absurd  figures  and  impossible  events:  a 
dream  so  complicated  and  lengthy,  that  when 
he  awoke  from  it  he  thought  he  must  have  slept 
a  century.  Half  frightened,  and  wondering  where 
he  was,  he  sat  up  upon  the  sofa.  A  great  planet 
was  shining  through  the  open  window.  He  list- 
ened. Not  a  sound  came  from  the  sick-room; 
through  the  window  floated  faint,  confused  noises, 
like  the  quarrelling  of  a  multitude.  He  went  to 
listen;  it  was  the  shrieking  and  howling  of  the 
violent  patients  in  a  distant  house.  Now  the 
sound  was  loud,  now  fainter  as  the  wind  veered- 
The  vast  and  gloomy  landscape  was  as  silent  as 
the  sky.  There  was  no  sign  of  life.  Piero  had 


In  Lumine  Vitae  375 

slept  but  half  an  hour.  He  reflected  with  in- 
difference that  those  same  stars  were  shining 
above  Vena,  but  the  thought  quickly  left  him. 
The  innumerable  eyes  of  the  stars  seemed  to  be 
acquainted  with  Elisa's  question:  "  Have  you  lost 
your  faith?"  and  to  be  all  looking  sadly  at  him. 
He  himself  looked  fixedly  at  the  planet,  thinking, 
involuntarily,  thoughts  that  were  consecutive 
enough  in  themselves,  but  that  came  into  his 
mind  confused  and  mingled  with  the  impressions 
his  senses  were  receiving;  as  guests  of  all  con- 
ditions, who  have  been  invited  to  take  part  in  a 
great  procession  previously  arranged  with  care, 
and  according  to  fixed  laws  of  precedence,  might 
hasten  to  the  place  of  meeting  mingled  with  a 
crowd  of  inquisitive  onlookers. 

"I  might  have  said:  My  creed  is  justice! — 
Good  God!  If  that  thing  had  really  happened 
at  Vena!  How  horrible  afterwards,  to  have 
received  your  kisses  and  embraces,  you  poor, 
suffering  creature! — What  a  coward,  what  a 
miserable  coward  I  have  been!" 

In  his  violent  self-condemnation  the  hidden 
thoughts  rose  confusedly  to  his  lips,  and  then  once 
more  subsided. 

"  What  would  have  become  of  me? — Everything 
would  have  fallen.  What  a  coward  I  am  indeed! 
Nothing,  nothing,  nothing!  The  creed  of  justice 
strengthened  me  not  at  all. — It  was  simply  chance, 
Bassanelli.  But  was  it  chance,  after  all?  Jeanne 
is  so  much  better  than  I  am;  so  much  better,  in 


376  The    Sinner 

spite  of  her  scepticism.  If  Jeanne  only  believed 
in  God  she  would  be  all  His. — And  my  presenti- 
ments? What  has  been  the  end  of  all  my  fore- 
bodings? Has  it  all  been  a  game  of  hazard,  a. 
mere  matter  of  chance? — My  God!  My  God! 
What  if  I  should  lose  my  mind !  What  if  I  should 
be  forced  to  remain  in  this  place  for  ever,  and  end 
my  days  like  those  howling  creatures  over  yonder ! 
— Father,  is  your  soul  on  that  planet? — No,  no, 
no!  Father,  father!  I  believe  in  God,  I  believe, 
I  believe!  I  have  always  believed!  Perhaps, 
after  all,  I  shall  go  where  you  are,  where  my 
mother  is!  Elisa  is  surely  going  to  join  you,  and 
perhaps,  some  day,  I  also  may  be  with  you! " 

By  a  violent  effort  he  checked  the  sobs  that  rose 
in  his  throat.  He  pressed  his  crossed  arms  to  his 
breast,  and  bit  his  underlip,  while  great  tears 
coursed  silently  down  his  face.  When  at  last, 
although  his  chest  still  heaved,  he  was  able  to  open 
his  lips  and  wipe  away  his  tears,  he  repeated 
Elisa's  words  over  and  over  again,  still  rather 
mechanically  than  with  deliberate  intention,  than 
with  deliberate  purpose,  but  he  nevertheless 
experienced  a  sense  of  infinite  inward  relief:  "In 
the  Lord!  In  the  Lord!  In  the  Lord!"  His 
sobs  broke  out  afresh,  but  he  stifled  them  and 
raised  his  face  to  the  great,  spectral  planet,  to 
the  stars.  Ah!  Elisa's  death  stood  written  in 
heaven's  innumerable,  sad  eyes.  He  pondered, 
and  slowly  a  vision  of  Praglia  rose  before  his 
mind's  eye;  a  vision  of  the  great,  deserted  monas- 


In  Lumine  Vita  377 

tery,  of  the  loggias,  where,  as  a  lad,  he  had  believed 
he  heard  a  mysterious  call.  The  vision  faded 
away,  and  his  thoughts  became  enveloped  in 
inward  mists;  the  stars  grew  less  bright,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  his  own  bewilderment,  of  the 
damp  and  cold  air,  of  the  shrieks,  the  howls, 
the  lamentations  of  those  maniacs. 

He  started.  A  hand  had  been  laid  gently  upon 
his  shoulder.  He  turned;  it  was  the  Marchesa. 
She  had  entered  the  room  and  lighted  the  lamp 
without  his  being  aware  of  her  presence.  Elisa 
wanted  Don  Giuseppe.  There  was  no  change 
in  her  condition.  This  was  simply  a  whim;  she 
had  something  to  tell  him,  and  probably  feared 
to  forget  it.  "What  a  lovely  night!"  the  old 
lady  added  gently,  but  hearing  the  cries  of  the 
maniacs,  she  hastily  closed  the  window.  Since 
beholding  Piero  on  his  knees  beside  her  daughter's 
bed,  in  that  attitude  of  love  and  grief,  she  had 
spoken  to  him  as  the  stronger  to  the  weaker, 
with  all  possible  precautions  against  alarming 
him,  against  afflicting  him.  She  now  bade  him 
go  and  call  Don  Giuseppe,  and  then  remain  at 
the  hotel  and  try  to  rest,  at  least  for  an  hour  or 
two. 

"Have  Papa  called  at  about  six  o'clock,"  said 
she,  "  and  see  that  he  has  some  milk  with  his 
coffee,  for  he  is  accustomed  to  take  milk. 

Piero  kissed  her  hand,  which  she  hastily  with- 
drew, wishing  to  cut  the  interview  short  and  re- 
turn to  her  daughter's  room.  He  would  have 


378  The    Sinner 

fallen  upon  his  knees  at  her  feet,  for  he  felt  that  the 
poor  woman  no  longer  hoped,  that  her  composure, 
her  gentleness,  her  watchful  attentions,  were 
all  due  to  the  miraculous  strength  of  her  saintly 
will.  He  went  to  the  hotel,  but  returned  with 
Don  Giuseppe,  who  immediately  entered  the 
sick-room.  The  Marchesa  and  the  Sister  joined 
Piero  in  the  little  drawing-room,  and  there  awaited 
the  end  of  the  interview.  The  Sister  was  casting 
anxiously  about  for  a  word  of  encouragement; 
the  Signora  had  taken  this  or  that  willingly,  she 
looked  much  as  usual.  She  was  wearing  herself 
out  with  her  continual  praying,  poor  dear.  She 
had  done  nothing  but  pray  ever  since  her  husband 
had  been  with  her.  Of  course  she  prayed  mentally, 
but  it  was  plain  enough  that  it  cost  her  a  great 
effort,  poor  creature. 

The  Marchesa  observed  that,  all  things  con- 
sidered, the  night  had  not  been  bad.  She  would 
like  to  go  to  Mass  in  the  early  morning.  The 
village  church  was  near  at  hand.  At  what  time 
was  the  first  Mass?  She  would  not  go  to  Don 
Giuseppe's  service,  so  that  they  might  not  all  be 
absent  at  the  same  time.  The  first  Mass  was 
at  half-past  four. 

No  one  could  find  anything  more  to  say,  and 
there  ensued  a  silence  that  was  painful  because 
each  felt  that  the  interview  between  the  invalid 
and  Don  Giuseppe  seemed  very  long  to  all  of 
them.  The  window,  which  had  not  been  properly 
fastened,  was  blown  open  by  a  puff  of  wind,  and 


In  Lumine  Vitae  379 

once  more  they  heard  those  confused  shrieks. 
Just  at  that  moment  the  old  priest  re-entered  the 
room.  The  Sister  immediately  hastened  to  re- 
sume her  post,  and  the  Marchesa  could  not 
refrain  from  asking:  "Well,  Don  Giuseppe?" 
nor  could  she  entirely  prevent  her  anxious  sus- 
pense from  writing  itself  upon  her  poor,  tired, 
old  face.  Don  Giuseppe  answered  quietly: 

"It  is  nothing,  poor  soul.     A  matter  of  piety. " 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"Oh,  there  is  no  change.  Perhaps  she  is,  if 
anything,  a  little  weaker.  She  wishes  to  receive 
Extreme  Unction  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock, 
because  she  says  she  always  feels  better  at  that 
hour.  This  can  only  do  her  good,  so  I  consented 
at  once." 

"  Yes, "  said  the  Marchesa,  softly.  In  her  great 
serious  eyes  there  shone  both  reverence  for  the 
sacrament  and  resignation.  She  said  nothing 
more  but  for  some  moments  stood  motionless  and 
downcast.  Then  for  the  first  time  she  wiped  her 
eyes.  As  she  did  so,  she  moved  towards  the  bed- 
room door,  and  in  her  bowed  shoulders  and  droop- 
ing head  there  was  expressed  the  meek  submission 
of  an  immense  grief  to  the  will  of  God. 

Don  Giuseppe  left  alone  with  Piero,  looked 
earnestly  into  his  face.  At  first  Piero  was  uncon- 
scious of  his  glance;  then  he  concluded  that  the 
priest  was  trying  to  read  his  thoughts.  Finally, 
noticing  a  change  in  Don  Giuseppe's  expression, 
that  had  become  sadder  and  more  solemn,  it 


380  The    Sinner 

flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  had  been  hiding 
something  when  he  had  answered  the  Marchesa's 
inquiries.  He  questioned  him  anxiously  with 
his  eyes. 

"  She  has  a  presentiment  that  she  will  die  to- 
morrow evening,"  Don  Giuseppe  said  softly. 
"  She  even  names  the  hour. " 

Piero  dropped  his  eyes. 

"I  know,  "  said  he. 

"Ah,  you  know.     But  there  is  something  else." 

Silence.  It  was  as  if  the  old  man  lacked  courage 
to  tell,  and  the  young  man  to  ask.  At  last  Don 
Giuseppe  said  with  an  effort: 

"  She  begs  that  she  may  be  buried  in  Valsolda. " 

Piero  clasped  his  hands  in  amazement. 

"  In  Valsolda  ?     In  Valsolda  ? " 

"  In  Valsolda,  and  for  two  reasons.  In  the 
first  place,  because  she  deeply  regrets  not  having 
shared  your  affection  for  the  spot,  and  feels  she  has 
also,  in  a  way,  slighted  the  memory  of  your  parents 
"who  rest  there;  and  secondly,  because  she  says 
that  now  she  feels  she  is  united  to  them  in  praying 
for  a  great  boon.  Yes,  yes;  her  words  were: 
'  Beg  Piero  to  let  me  go  to  them'  ..." 

The  old  man's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  a  faint 
breath : 

"...  'like  a  daughter.'  " 

Piero,  who  was  sobbing,  folded  him  in  a  warm 
embrace. 

"  I  believe  .  .  .  the  boon  ..."  But  he  could 
not  go  on. 


In  Lumine  Vitae  381 

They  remained  thus  folded  in  each  other's  arms 
for  some  time.  At  last  the  young  man  raised 
his  head,  and  murmured: 

"And  my  poor  mother-in-law?  What  will  she 
say?  Will  it  not  be  a  great  grief  to  her?" 

"  I  reminded  your  wife  of  that,  but  she  an- 
swered :  '  Oh,  Mamma  is  a  saint. '  And  now  hush, 
or  they  will  hear  us!" 

The  bells  of  the  little  church  near  by  are  ringing 
the  Ave  Maria  at  daybreak.  The  sick  woman 
asks  what  time  it  is,  and  wishes  to  see  the  sky. 
She  tells  her  mother  she  has  been  asleep  and  has 
dreamed  that  she  was  in  Paradise  with  Piero, 
her  father  and  mother,  and,  she  adds,  smiling 
at  the  nun,  with  Sister  Eletta  also.  Mamma  and 
Sister  Eletta  shone  very  brightly,  she  says,  but 
Piero  far  outshone  them  both!  Her  mother 
exclaims:  "  Nonsense,  nonsense!"  with  calm  good- 
nature. The  invalid  tells  her  to  prepare  herself, 
for  the  time  will  soon  come,  and  she  herself  is 
so  happy!  The  mother  is  silent;  the  bells  ring 
on;  Sister  Eletta  opens  the  blinds  a  little  way. 
For  the  last  time  the  sufferer  sees  the  white  light 
of  dawn  spread  in  the  eastern  sky. 


IV 


Don  Giuseppe  said  Mass  at  about  half-past  five. 
In  after  days  the  parish  priest  used  to  declare  that 
he  had  never  seen  any  one  officiate  with  such 


382  The    Sinner 

fervour  in  his  voice,  with  such  piety  in  his  face, 
with  sighs  so  deep  and  full  of  longing  as  that  old 
priest,  who  was  a  stranger  to  the  place.  "  He 
appeared  to  be  seeing  Christ  in  a  vision!"  said  he. 
"After  Mass,  when  I  had  helped  him  to  unrobe, 
I  left  him." 

Absorbed  in  the  prayers  of  thanksgiving,  Don 
Giuseppe  did  not  notice  when  some  one  entered 
the  sacristy.  Upon  rising  from  the  kneeling- 
stool  he  was  confounded  with  astonishment  and 
dismay;  before  him  stood  Piero,  his  face  aflame 
with  anxiety  and  supplication,  his  clasped  hands 
trembling  so  violently  that  the  priest  immediately 
thought:  "She  is  dead!"  and  his  terrified  eyes 
proclaimed  his  fear.  "No,  no!  I  must  speak 
to  you!"  Piero  panted.  Don  Giuseppe  dismissed 
the  acolyte  who  was  in  attendance,  Piero  flung 
himself  upon  the  kneeling-stool,  and,  covering 
his  eyes  with  one  hand,  motioned  repeatedly  with 
the  other  to  a  battered  arm-chair  that  stood  near 
for  the  use  of  a  confessor. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Don  Giuseppe 
obeyed,  half  reluctantly,  half  willingly,  and 
eagerly  awaited  an  explanation. 

"I  can  speak  nowhere  else,  nowhere  else!" 
sobbed  Piero,  both  hands  hiding  his  face.  "I 
was  already  much  shaken  .  .  .  when  you  talked 
to  me  in  the  night  .  .  .  about  the  great  boon  .  .  .  ! 
But  afterwards  .  .  .  afterwards!" 

He  could  not  go  on.  Don  Giuseppe  stroked  his 
hair  very  gently. 


In  Lumine  Vitae  383 

"  Wait,  wait!  Weep. your  fill  and  then  you  will 
be  calmer." 

But  neither  could  Piero  remain  silent,  and, 
little  by  little,  his  voice  became  more  firm. 

"  Afterwards  ...  as  soon  as  you  had  left  me  to 
come  here,  I  suddenly  became  restless,  and  was 
conscious  of  a  sense  of  anxious  inward  expect- 
ancy of  I  know  not  what,  of  an  intense  inward 
longing,  of  a  desire  to  weep,  without  being  able 
to  do  so.  Then  all  at  once,  and  for  an  instant, 
for  an  instant  only,  I  saw  behind  my  brow  or 
within  my  breast,  I  know  not  which,  the  words, 
'Why  dost  thou  resist  me?' — I  was  frightened 
at  first,  but  presently  I  said  to  myself: — 'It  is  a 
coincidence,  it  is  involuntary  reminiscence,  that 
is  all. ' — Upon  her  return  from  Mass,  my  mother- 
in-law  had  left  her  prayer-book  upon  the  table 
in  the  drawing-room.  I  opened  it.  It  was  the 
Imitation  of  Christ.  My  eyes  fell  upon  the  be- 
ginning of  the  fourth  book,  where  Christ's  words 
are  set  down :  '  Venite  ad  me  omnes  qui  laboratis 
et  onerati  estis  et  ego  reficiam  vos. ' 

Under  his  breath  Don  Giuseppe  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  astonishment.  Piero  questioned 
him  eagerly.  Nothing,  nothing,  Don  Giuseppe 
had  nothing  to  tell  him.  The  young  man  resumed. 

"  I  began  to  tremble,  to  tremble  violently,  as  if  I 
had  heard  the  Lord  Himself  calling  me.  I  came 
directly  to  the  church.  On  the  way  I  felt  I  was 
walking  through  an  atmosphere  laden  with  God's 
presence.  As  my  foot  touched  the  threshold  of 


384  The    Sinner 

the  church,  and  I  saw  you  at  the  altar,  I  was 
swayed,  all  at  once,  by  many  different  emotions. 
The  faith  of  my  childhood  awoke  within  me;  my 
separation  from  God,  my  repeated  refusals  to 
listen  to  His  calls,  now  caused  me  acute  pain; 
and  my  heart  was  filled  with  loving  gratitude  for 
all  the  patient  kindness  He  has  heaped  upon 
me. 

"The  Mass  had  reached  the  Sanctus.  I  fell 
upon  my  knees.  At  the  moment  of  the  conse- 
cration I  covered  my  eyes  with  my  hands  and 
saw,  yes,  I  really  saw,  written  in  the  palms  of  my 
hands,  those  five  words,  those  very  words,  which 
as  a  lad,  in  moments  of  mystic  fervour,  when  I 
fancied  I  was  about  to  die,  I  longed  to  see  appear 
upon  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  my  bed :  MAGISTER 
ADEST  ET  VOCAT  TE.  I  saw  them  large  and  white 
against  a  black  background.  Then,  towards  the 
end"  of  the  Mass  while  I  was  still  upon  my  knees 
with  my  eyes  covered,  this  terrible  thing  happened 
to  me:  I  had  a  vision  which  was  like  a  flash  and 
lasted  only  an  instant,  of  my  life  in  the  future  and 
of  my  death!  If  I  close  my  eyes  I  see  it  still.  Oh, 
tell  me,  tell  me,  Don  Giuseppe !  I  thirst  to  give  my 
whole  being  to  God,  but  may  I  indeed  believe 
that  this  vision  has  come  to  me  from  Him,  that 
it  points  out  His  will?  For  if  I  believe  this,  it 
contains  an  explicit  command.  For  the  present 
I  must  make  complete  renunciation,  and  later, 
when  God  shall  see  fit,  I  must  assume  a  grave 
responsibility,  I  must  publicly  fulfil  a  personal 


In  Lumine  Vitae  385 

and  extraordinary  mission  in  the  Church.  I 
may  believe  in  my  vision,  may  I  not?" 

"  Your  first  duty  is  to  compose  your  solu, "  Don 
Giuseppe  replied.  "You  must  return  thanks  to 
the  Lord  who  has  once  more  called  you  to  Him,  and 
pray,  pray  with  the  utmost  fervour,  that  He  may 
enlighten  you,  that  He  may  reveal  His  will  to  you, 
with  as  much  certainty,  at  least,  as  our  nature  is 
capable  of  feeling,  our  nature  which  is  so  finite 
in  its  communications  with  infinite  knowledge! 
For,  at  times,  certain  human  presumptions  find 
a  means  of  mingling  with  the  pious  impulses  of 
our  soul,  and  induce  us  to  mistake  for  facts  of  a 
supernatural  order,  facts  which,  on  the  contrary, 
are  the  outcome  of  an  abnormal  condition  of  our 
spirit  and  body,  and  which — although  tehy  are 
indeed  the  work  of  God,  because,  of  course,  every- 
thing is  God's  work,  accomplished  by  His  own 
methods  and  for  His  own  inscrutable  purposes — 
cannot  be  intended  as  direct  revelations  of  His 
will  to  us.  Only  think  ..." 

Here  Don  Giuseppe  hesitated,  somewhat  em- 
barrassed, and  his  voice  grew  more  tender: 

"...  are  we  not  all  beseeching  the  Lord  to 
grant  your  Elisa's  recovery?  And  think  how 
this  grace,  be  it  granted  or  denied,  must  affect 
your  life!" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!  Good  God!  That  is  true,  but, 
nevertheless,  there  is  the  vision!" 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed!"  Don  Giuseppe  exclaimed. 
"  And  the  Lord  has  it  in  His  power  to  confirm  it. 


386  The    Sinner 

Meanwhile  there  are  acts  which  He  certainly 
expects  you  to  perform.  He  expects  you  to  pay 
your  debt  to  Him,  be  it  great  or  small  ..." 

"Great,  great,  very  great!"  the  young  man 
cried  despairingly. 

"...  to  know  and  love  Him  as  you  once  did, 
better  than  you  once  did.  He  may  have  some 
other  great  gift  in  reserve  for  you.  We  can  only 
hope  and  pray!  And  now  shall  we  not  hasten 
to  console  that  poor  sufferer?  Let  us  hasten 
to  tell  her  that  her  prayers  have  been  an- 
swered." 

Piero  raised  one  of  the  old  man's  reluctant 
hands  to  his  lips. 

"  You  go,  you  go ! "  he  answered.  "  You  yourself 
must  tell  her,  at  once!" 

At  this  point  the  acolyte  came  in,  sent  by  the 
parish  priest  to  remind  Don  Giuseppe  that  the 
hour  fixed  for  the  administration  of  the  Holy  Oil 
to  the  sick  woman  was  approaching.  Piero 
left  the  sacristy  with  the  feeling  that  Don  Giu- 
seppe was  inclined  to  attribute  his  visions  to 
intense  nervous  excitement,  and  to  consider  them 
vain  apparitions.  In  spite  of  himself  this  was 
painful  to  him.  While  Don  Giuseppe  had  been 
laying  his  prudent  considerations  before  him  he 
himself  had  doubted.  Then  his  soul  had  gradually 
and  slowly  composed  itself  into  a  peace  full  of 
certitude,  as  troubled  waters,  gradually  sinking 
into  repose  once  more,  hold  fixed  in  themselves 
the  reflections  of  surrounding  objects. 


In  Lumine  Vitae  387 


The  sacrament  had  been  administered,  and  life 
was  ebbing  fast.  The  invalid  could  no  longer 
speak,  and  human  hope  had  left  the  silent  room 
with  bowed  head,  while  celestial  hope  had  entered, 
solemn  and  sweet,  announcing,  with  finger  to  lip, 
the  approach  of  an  angel,  and  filling  all  things 
with  peace  and  humble  reverence.  The  faces  of 
the  watchers  were  calm  and  grave;  they  had 
ceased  to  question  the  doctors,  whose  expression 
also  betrayed  their  respect  for  the  great  mystery. 
Don  Giuseppe,  seated  beside  the  bed,  was  reading 
pious  words;  no  other  voice  was  heard;  no  one 
dared  to  weep.  In  the  presence  of  the  dying 
woman,  of  the  hidden  mystery  that  was  being 
accomplished  on  that  bed,  listening  to  the  solemn 
ring  of  the  pious  words,  sat  the  mother,  grand  in 
her  isolation.  They  had  attempted  to  prepare 
her,  telling  her  vaguely  of  her  daughter's  pre- 
sentiment, but  without  stating  the  hour;  but  she, 
as  if  already  aware  of  this,  or  unwilling  to  hear  it, 
had  never  once  turned  upon  her  informant  those 
great,  black  eyes  of  hers,  so  grave  and  despairing, 
that  were  fixed  upon  the  divine  will.  When  Don 
Giuseppe  had  recited  the  rosary  in  the  little 
drawing-room,  she  had  stood  with  hands  clasped 
upon  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  had  made  all  the 
responses.  But  after  that  she  had  not  spoken 
again,  nor  had  she  betrayed  her  grief  even  by  a 
gesture.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  now 


388  The    Sinner 

sat  quietly  in  the  same  place,  as  the  slow,  inter- 
minable hours  dragged  on,  and  the  doctors  and 
nurses,  glancing  at  her  from  time  to  time  as  at 
something  awe-inspiring,  avoided  passing  near 
her,  and,  when  obliged  to  do  so,  bowed  their  heads. 

The  invalid  could  no  longer  speak,  but  she  still 
understood  everything.  She  had  understood  the 
sweet  and  joyous  words  Don  Giuseppe  had  whis- 
pered to  her  immediately  after  the  administration 
of  the  sacrament;  she  had  smiled  and  sought 
Piero  with  her  eyes,  and  had  seen  him  standing 
straight  and  resolute  there  before  her;  twice  or 
thrice  the  poor  lips  had  tried  to  speak,  but  in  vain ; 
then  her  eyes  had  expressed  to  him  all  she  felt, 
all  her  joy,  her  tenderness,  and  even  her  humble 
respect.  She  had  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
then  let  them  drop  again ;  once  more  the  poor  lips 
had  tried  in  vain  to  speak.  At  that  moment  Don 
Giuseppe,  who  was  watching  Piero,  had  seen  his 
face  become  transfigured,  not  with  grief,  but  with 
a  spiritual  energy  that  was  superhuman,  luminous, 
and  mute. 

The  hours  dragged  on,  slow  and  interminable. 
At  intervals  death  paused  an  instant  in  his  onward 
march,  and  the  physicians  strove  painfully  and 
hopelessly  to  hold  him  at  bay;  but  Piero  asserted 
his  authority,  and  begged  them  to  allow  the 
struggling  spirit  to  depart  in  peace.  Many  letters 
and  telegrams  arrived,  containing  inquiries  and 
words  of  hope,  but  neither  Piero  nor  the  Marchesa 
would  examine  them,  and  they  were  laid  aside. 


In  Lumine  Vitae  389 

At  five  o'clock,  the  Scremins'  agent  came  from 
the  station,  ostensibly  to  make  inquiries,  but 
really  because  he  felt  he  would  be  wanted  should 
the  Signora  pass  away.  He  asked  whether  he 
should  remain.  The  watchers  shuddered  and 
avoided  each  other's  glance,  and  no  one  answered. 
The  man  was  allowed  to  withdraw  without  a  word, 
and  it  was  the  Director  who  ordered  him  to  re- 
main, to  wait  at  the  inn.  It  struck  six  o'clock. 
Those  who  knew,  thought: 

"  Perhaps  it  may  come  in  an  hour,  or  perhaps 
in  two  or  even  three,  but  not  later. " 

The  Director  begged  the  family  to  partake  of 
some  food  which  he  had  had  prepared  in  his  own 
apartments.  Don  Giuseppe  and  the  Marchese 
had  something  brought  to  the  little  drawing-room, 
but  neither  Piero  nor  the  Marchesa  would  leave 
the  sick-room.  It  struck  seven  o'clock.  Two 
hours  more  perhaps. 

Through  the  open  windows  they  could  see  the 
burning  mountain-tops  go  out  one  by  one,  while 
the  darkness  crept  ever  higher.  The  bells  of  the 
neighbouring  church  and  of  the  distant  city  rang 
out  the  evening  Ave  Maria,  and  then  all  was  still. 
Star  after  star  shone  forth  in  the  east.  Once  more 
the  bell  of  the  little  church  began  to  peal.  This 
time  it  was  the  passing  bell. 

It  was  ten  minutes  to  nine.  Don  Giuseppe  began 
to  read  the  prayers  for  the  dying,  in  a  clear 
voice,  stopping  often  to  press  the  crucifix  to  the 
pale  lips  of  the  sufferer,  who  no  longer  heard,  no 


39°  The    Sinner 

longer  saw.  All  her  dear  ones  and  Sister  Eletta 
were  praying  upon  their  knees  when  the  angel 
of  God  entered  at  last.  A  silence  as  of  the  grave 
fell  upon  the  watchers,  and  they  heard  the  step 
of  a  passer-by,  and  singing  in  the  distant  fields. 
The  doctor  bent  over  the  quiet  face,  that  was 
whiter  than  the  pillow  upon  which  it  rested. 
A  smile  illumined  it,  and  the  lips  were  slightly 
parted.  He  glanced  silently  at  Don  Giuseppe, 
who,  in  his  turn,  bent  over  her  with  clasped  hands, 
and  when  he  once  more  raised  his  head,  it  was  to 
say  in  the  hushed  and  reverent  voice  he  would 
have  used  at  the  altar : 

"This  is  not  death.  It  is  the  light  of  eternal 
life." 

Not  a  single  flower  lost  its  brief  hour  of  life  for 
her.  Her  mother  would  not  tolerate  them  upon 
the  funeral  couch. 


VI 


Towards  midnight,  in  a  small  room  at  the  inn, 
and  by  the  light  of  a  tallow  candle,  Piero  and  Don 
Giuseppe  sat  talking  of  the  dead  woman,  and  of 
the  spiritual  treasure  which  had  lain  hidden  within 
her. 

"  She  had  her  mother's  nature  in  that  respect, " 
said  Piero. 

Then  Don  Giuseppe  sighed. 

He  sat  still  and  silent  for  some  minutes  as  if 


In  Lumine  Vitae  39 l 

considering  this  admirable  mother,  and  then 
drawing  a  case  from  his  pocket,  said  she  had  en- 
trusted him  with  something  for  Piero. 

Some  time  before,  when  that  "  I  suffer, "  so  full 
of  anguish,  and  of  hope,  had  come  from  the  Asy- 
lum, the  Marchesa  had  secretly  commissioned 
Don  Giuseppe  to  have  a  few  appropriate  words 
engraved  upon  a  gold  medal,  which  Elisa,  in  the 
event  of  her  recovery,  would  give  to  her  husband 
in  memory  of  the  merciful  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence. Upon  leaving  home  in  obedience  to  the 
Director's  summons,  she  had  taken  the  medal 
with  her  as  a  good  omen,  and  now  it  was  Don 
Giuseppe's  duty  to  consign  it  to  Piero  as  a  precious 
relic.  On  one  side  the  medal  bore  engraved 
around  the  edge,  the  words  of  Christ: 

VENITE  AD  ME  OMNES  QUI  LABORATIS  ET  ONERATI 
ESTIS     ET    EGO    REFICIAM    VOS. 

Upon  the  other  face  were  the  words: 

REFECIT  NOS 

ME    REDDIDIT  TIBI 

ET  TE  MIHI. 

Piero  took  the  medal,  and,  upon  reading  the 
words  of  Christ,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise as  Don  Giuseppe  had  done  in  the  little  church, 
when  Piero  had  told  him  that  chance  had  placed 
those  same  words  before  his  eyes.  He  studied 


392  The    Sinner 

them    for   some    time,  and    then    embraced    the 
venerable  old  man,  and  begged  him  to  have  some- 
thing more  added,  something  he  himself  had  said. 
"  I  should  like  it  to  read  thus, "  he  concluded: 

REFECIT  NOS 
ME  REDDIDIT  TIBI 

ET  TE   MIHI 
IN  LUMINE  VITAE. 

Now  it  was  Don  Giuseppe's  turn  to  throw  his 
arm  affectionately  round  the  young  man's  neck. 

"And  does  Mamma  know  whither  she  is  to  be 
carried?"  Piero  asked,  after  a  long  pause. 

"Yes,  she  knows." 

"When  do  you  think  my  parents-in-law  will 
leave?" 

"To-morrow  morning  at  five.  We  are  going 
together." 

" Oh,  Don  Giuseppe,  Don  Giuseppe!"  the  young 
man  cried.  "I  need  you!" 

"  I  can  stay  until  eleven  o'clock,  or  even  until 
four,  if  you  wish,"  said  the  priest. 

"No,  no!  You  must  come  to  Valsolda  with 
me.  With  me  and  with  her!  I  need  you  to  help 
me  begin  what  God  has  ordered  me  to  do. " 

"  You  need  me?"  Don  Giuseppe  hesitated. 

"I  no  longer  entertain  the  slightest  doubt," 
said  Piero,  believing  his  hesitation  meant  that 
the  priest  had  doubts  concerning  his  vision  and 
his  vocation. 


In  Lumine  Vitae  393 

"But  I  am  good  for  nothing!  I  have  no 
strength,  no  head,  no  .  .  .  ." 

Don  Giuseppe  paused.  The  hand  of  the  Lord 
seemed  stretched  out  above  this  young  man. 
Might  the  most  broken,  the  most  miserable  dare 
to  say  to  such  a  Hand :  "  With  me  Thou  wilt  ac- 
complish nought"?  His  protests  ended  in  a  few 
mumbled  words,  broken  like  his  resistance.  Mean- 
while neither  he  nor  Piero  had  been  conscious 
of  an  oft-repeated  knocking.  The  person  who 
had  knocked,  receiving  no  answer,  finally  opened 
the  door.  The  two  men  rose  to  their  feet;  the 
Marchesa  entered,  bent  and  sombre,  her  bonnet 
on,  and  her  veil  covering  her  face.  How  was 
this?  Were  they  going  to  leave  at  once?  Yes, 
she  and  her  husband  had  decided,  for  several 
reasons,  not  to  go  by  train,  but  to  take  a  carriage. 
Thus  they  could  start  at  once,  and  reach  home 
before  sunrise.  Having  told  them  this  in  a  grave 
voice,  she  sat  down,  and  lapsed  into  silence,  her 
breath  coming  hard.  Don  Giuseppe,  feeling  that 
his  presence  at  that  moment  was  inopportune, 
softly  left  the  room. 

Piero  knelt  at  his  mother-in-law's  feet,  and 
taking  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips;  her  breath- 
ing more  laboured  than  ever,  she  placed  her  other 
hand  upon  his  head,  thus  bestowing  upon  him 
her  mute  pardon,  her  mute  blessing,  and  a  mute 
caress  in  her  dead  daughter's  name.  All  that 
these  two  had  to  say  to  each  other  was  said  thus, 
said  at  great  length,  without  a  word,  without 


394  The    Sinner 

a  movement.     The  old  lady  could  not  have  borne 
to  speak  in  any  other  way. 

Finally,  in  order  to  rid  herself  of  the  fear  that 
he  would  speak,  would  mention  the  past,  the 
hated  subject,  she  advised  him  to  take  some  rest. 

"You  have  the  journey  before  you,"  she  said. 

She  meant  the  journey  to  Valsolda  with  the 
body,  the  journey  which  must  be  postponed  for 
at  least  twenty-four  hours  longer.  But  Piero 
did  not  move.  He  also  seemed  to  be  expecting 
a  word  from  her,  or  perhaps  he  himself  had  some- 
thing to  say.  The  Marchesa  tried  to  withdraw 
her  hand  which  he  was  pressing  between  his  own, 
but  perceiving  that  he  clung  to  it,  she  supposed 
he  was  overcome  by  his  grief,  and  said  tenderly 
that  the  Lord  had  surely  acted  for  the  best. 

But  Piero  would  not  set  her  hand  free.  She 
waited  a  moment,  and  then  said  hesitatingly, 
that  it  must  be  time  for  Zaneto  and  herself  to 
start. 

But  still  Piero  would  not  let  go  her  hand.  The 
Marchesa  reflected  that  to  the  young  man  she 
was  as  a  part  of  his  Elisa,  and  that  it  was  for  this 
reason  it  was  so  bitterly  hard  for  him  to  tear 
himself  away  from  her  at  present.  She  inquired 
when  he  would  return,  but  immediately,  and 
without  confessing  even  to  herself  the  dread  that 
moved  her  to  do  so,  added  that  she  proposed  going 
to  visit  him  in  Valsolda.  "To  visit  you  both," 
she  said  at  first,  but  quickly  corrected  her  pitiful 
mistake:  "To  visit  you!"  She  mentioned  a 


In  Lumine  Vitae  395 

distant  date  in  November,  thus  admitting  that 
his  absence  might  be  of  even  longer  duration. 

"One  word,  Mamma:  I  do  not  know  when  we 
shall  meet  again." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Piero  rose  to  his  feet,  and  resting  his  hands 
gently  upon  her  shoulders,  whispered  softly  to 
her. 

She  did  not  understand  at  once,  and  asked  some 
questions.  Still  she  could  not  understand,  and 
again  she  questioned  him.  Her  great,  black  eyes 
were  filled  with  astonishment,  with  despair,  and 
at  last  with  tears.  A  few  more  questions,  a  few, 
short,  whispered  questions ;  again  he  spoke  to  her, 
again  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  then  the  tears 
rolled  down  her  wrinkled  face. 

One  question  more: 

"Where?" 

He  was  silent. 

Again : 

"Have  you  told  Don  Giuseppe?" 

"Yes." 

They  heard  the  jangling  of  bells  and  the  slow 
trot  of  horses  in  the  distance,  then  the  noise  of 
wheels  and  of  wooden  shoes  sounded  on  the 
paving  stones,  and  presently  the  trotting  and 
the  jangling  stopped  directly  beneath  the  window. 
Silence. 

"Then,"  said  the  Marchesa,  rising,  "shall  I 
never  see  you  again?" 

"Only  the  Lord  knows." 


396  The    Sinner 

Oh,  to  her  also,  to  her  also  now,  Piero  was  as 
a  part  of  her  Elisa!  She  wiped  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  but  her  handkerchief  shook  in  her  hand, 
poor  creature!  And  the  embrace  in  which  she 
folded  her  son-in-law  was  so  close  that  Piero  was 
deeply  moved  by  this  mark  of  affection  so  unusual 
in  her.  They  heard  steps  upon  the  stairs.  It  was 
the  Marchese  coming  in  search  of  his  wife.  She 
once  more  resumed  her  iron  control  over  herself, 
and  remembering  her  duty  towards  her  husband, 
as  she  had  always  understood  it,  murmured: 

"Don't  tell  Papa,  poor  Papa!" 

Zaneto  entered  the  room. 


VII 


Upon  returning  to  his  own  room  Don  Giuseppe 
was  greatly  astonished  to  find  the  Director  of  the 
Asylum  waiting  for  him  there.  The  physician 
said  he  had  something  of  a  most  delicate  and 
secret  nature  to  communicate  to  him.  Don 
Giuseppe  had  no  idea  what  this  communication 
might  be. 

"  I  speak  to  you,  "  the  Director  began,  "  because 
of  the  high  opinion  I  have  formed  of  you  during 
the  last  two  days,  and  also  because  I  really  had 
not  the  courage  to  speak  to  the  Scremins  at  such 
a  time;  and,  indeed,  it  would  perhaps  have  been 
unwise  to  do  so.  Tell  me,  Don  Giuseppe,  what 
do  you  think  of  Maironi?" 

"I?" 


In  Lumine  Vitae  397 

Don  Giuseppe,  much  astonished,  was  casting 
about  in  his  mind  for  an  explanation  of  such  a 
question. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  answer,"  he  said  at 
last.  "I  think  he  has  felt  the  blow  most  deeply; 
more  deeply,  perhaps,  than  might  have  been 
expected." 

"Is  that  all?" 

Was  it  possible  the  Director  had  heard  of  this 
vision?  No,  that  was  out  of  the  question. 

"That  is  all,"  said  he. 

The  physician  sighed,  and  Don  Giuseppe  asked 
what  he  himself  thought  of  Piero. 

"  I  am  of  opinion  that  you  must  get  that  man 
away  from  here  as  soon  as  possible,  and  never 
leave  him  to  himself,"  said  he. 

"Why?" 

Don  Giuseppe  had  not  yet  grasped  his  meaning. 

"Because  I  believe  his  mental  condition  to  be 
such  as  not  to  exclude  the  possibility — I  am 
going  to  speak  quite  openly — that  he  might, 
one  day  or  another,  come  here,  and  fill  the  place 
his  wife  has  left  vacant." 

Don  Giuseppe  uttered  an  exclamation  of  amaze- 
ment and  protest,  but  the  Director  disregarded 
it. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  he.  "I  have  long  been 
interested  in  Piero  Maironi,  and  the  nature  of 
my  profession  has  prompted  me  to  study  him 
carefully  whenever  he  has  been  here.  I  will  not 
go  so  far  as  to  say  he  is  a  neurasthenic,  but,  setting 


398  The    Sinner 

aside  scientific  terms,  I  can  assure  you  he  is,  to 
say  the  least,  of  a  highly  nervous  temperament. 
When  he  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  here  fre- 
quently, I  noted  certain  religious  tendencies  in 
him — for  he  gave  proof  of  his  fervour  on  several 
occasions  in  our  little  chapel  here — noted  his 
intolerance  of  anything  approaching  to  indelicacy 
in  conversation ;  and  certain  strange  acts  of  his 
also,  such  as  his  repeated  refusal  to  visit  that 
part  of  the  Asylum  where  the  female  patients  are 
confined;  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was,  by  nature,  a  pious,  austere  man,  but  one 
unfit  for  celibacy;  whose  necessary  separation 
from  his  wife  caused  him  great  suffering,  such 
suffering  as  to  seriously  affect  his  nervous  system. 
Then,  having  heard  a  rumour  of  an  attachment 
— pardon  me,  I  speak  as  a  medical  man — I  re- 
flected that  perhaps  that  evil  might,  after  all, 
prove  a  blessing  in  disguise.  But  something 
happened  here  to-day  which  has  startled  me. 
This  morning,  between  ten  and  half-past — per- 
haps you  did  not  notice  his  absence — Maironi 
entered  our  little  chapel,  which  he  believed  was 
empty,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  a  servant 
in  the  sacristy.  Now  this  man  saw  him  making 
the  strangest  gestures,  and  heard  him  groaning 
aloud,  while  he  gazed  at  the  crucifix  with  the 
expression  of  one  who  is  a  victim  of  hallucinations. 
You  will  tell  me  that  the  saints  of  old  indulged 
in  trances  of  this  sort.  I  have  all  due  respect  for 
the  saints,  and  I  will  not  even  question  St.  Theresa; 


In  Lumine  Vitae  399 

but  do  you  really  believe  there  are  any  saints 
nowadays?  I  myself  greatly  doubt  it.  Nowa- 
days we  have  hysteria  and  religious  manias.  In 
my  opinion  his  actions  this  morning  were  the 
result  of  a  religious  mania.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  this  mania  may  always  remain  within  certain 
limits  set  by  time  and  place,  but  it  is  also  quite 
possible  that  it  may  increase.  And  now  you 
know  what  I  had  to  communicate  to  you.  I  felt 
it  was  my  duty  to  speak. " 

"Alas!"  cried  Don  Giuseppe  sadly,  with  bowed 
head,  like  one  who,  in  so  grave  a  question,  has 
not,  nor  can  possibly  have,  the  certainty  he  could 
have  wished  to  possess,  but  who  inclines  to  a 
different  opinion  from  the  one  which  has  caused 
him  such  anxiety.  "Thank  you,"  said  he. 

The  Director  withdrew. 

VIII 

When  she  had  finished  the  recitation  of  the 
rosary  with  her  husband,  had  advised  him  to  go 
to  sleep  if  he  could,  and  had  arranged  her  shawl 
carefully  upon  his  knees,  the  poor  old  Marchesa 
leaned  back  in  one  corner  of  the  closed  carriage 
and  continued  her  prayers.  She  prayed  for 
Elisa,  although  she  was  sure  her  child  was  in 
Paradise;  she  prayed  for  Piero  also,  prayed  that 
he  might  make  no  mistake,  that  he  might  be 
led  to  ponder  well  upon  a  resolve  that,  to  her, 
seemed  almost  madness.  And  she  thought  and 
thought  of  this  incredible  thing,  determining,  at 


400  The   Sinner 

last,  to  write  to  Don  Giuseppe  about  it.  Her 
mind  was  already  busy  with  plans  for  the  future, 
plans  both  for  her  son-in-law  and  for  her  husband. 
What  if  she  should  die  and  leave  Zaneto  all  alone? 
In  imagination  she  installed  him  in  her  villa,  in- 
stalled Piero  in  the  little  apartment  she  had  pre- 
pared for  Elisa,  mapped  out  their  mode  of  life, 
making  and  unmaking  endless  arrangements, 
spinning  eternally  the  fine  threads  of  intricate 
designs,  which  the  night  wind  quickly  swept  away, 
the  night  wind  aided  by  the  even,  monotonous 
trot  of  the  horses,  by  the  rhythmic  jangling  of  their 
bells,  that  also  seemed  to  be  travelling  a  road 
that  was  endless,  endless  and  weary. 


IX 


Shortly  before  midnight  on  that  same  night, 
Jeanne  left  the  drawing-room  of  Villa  Cerri  almost 
by  stealth.  The  Maestro  and  a  very  clever  vio- 
linist were  playing  a  whirling  allegro,  which 
poured  through  the  open  windows  toward  the 
woods  and  the  fields  of  the  surrounding  hills. 
She  went  out  into  the  cold  darkness,  and  leaned 
against  the  railing  which  crowns  the  semi-circluar 
bastion  in  front  of  the  villa.  She  did  not  know 
the  reason  of  Piero's  departure,  but  she  knew  he 
had  not  written  to  her  since,  and  she  knew  also 
that  she  no  longer  wished  to  love  him,  but  that 
she  was  unable  to  love  any  one  else  in  the  world, 
unable  even  to  think  of  any  one  else.  She  leaned 


In  Lumine  Vitae 


forward  over  the  yawning  precipice  and  wept. 
She  felt  it  was  all  over,  felt  that  that  last  flash  of 
passion  had  passed  in  vain  through  his  senses, 
rather  than  through  his  heart.  She  told  herself 
that  she  might  possibly  regain  his  affection  by 
feigning  a  conversion;  she  could  die  for  him,  but 
she  could  not  lie  to  him.  From  the  black  chasm 
at  her  feet  she  raised  her  eyes  slowly  along  the 
face  of  the  mountain  opposite,  until  they  reached 
the  sky.  Above  a  band  of  mist  stretched  the 
open,  peaceful  heavens,  with  the  innumerable 
stars.  As  a  child  she  had  believed  in  God.  What 
a  sweet  refuge  He  would  be  for  her  now!  But 
how  could  she  believe  in  God  ?  How  could  beings 
so  unstable,  so  short-lived,  so  miserable  have  con- 
ceived such  a  mighty  Absolute?  How  could  God 
be  other  than  the  desire  for  what  we  ourselves 
lack?  And  if  God  really  did  exist,  simply  in 
the  form  of  that  absolute  justice  about  which 
Maironi  had  become  fanatical,  should  this  justice 
not  be  apparent  in  everything  which  does  not 
depend  upon  human  will,  in  everything  which 
depends  upon  justice  alone?  But  where,  then, 
was  this  justice?  Why  should  she  herself  suffer 
so  much?  Was  she  responsible  for  this  love  of 
hers? 

The  music  ceased.  Composing  herself  as  best 
she  could,  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
inquiring  carelessly: 

"What  were  you  playing?" 

Her  brother  was  scandalised!     Was  it  possible 


402  The    Sinner 

she  had  not  recognised  the  first  allegro  of  the 
Kreutzersonate  ? 

"  They  call  it  an  allegro, "  he  added.  "  I  call  it 
a  mingling  of  the  agony  of  two  souls,  the  souls  of 
the  piano  and  of  the  violin ;  an  agony  which  must 
of  necessity  accompany  the  birth  of  something 
very  grand!" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Signora  Cerri  observed 
timidly,  addressing  Jeanne,  "  that  it  is  often  thus 
in  real  life.  Don't  you  think  I  am  right?" 

Jeanne  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
WITHOUT    TRACE 


THAT  frail  body,  once  the  dwelling  of  the 
spirit  that  had  ascended  to  Life,  had 
rested  for  three  days  in  the  little  white  cemetery 
above  the  mirror  of  the  lake,  among  the  vines,  the 
olives  and  the  laurels  of  this  gentle  land.  The 
night  that  was  fast  closing  in  promised  to  be 
stormy.  Gusts  of  wind,  alternating  with  deep 
hushes  that  fell  upon  all  things,  whistled  across 
the  lake,  along  the  banks,  and  through  the  ole- 
anders and  rose-bushes  of  the  Maironi  garden, 
forcing  their  branches  to  bend  towards  the  waves. 
The  wind  rustled  in  the  umbrella-pine  above  the 
bench  where  Piero  and  Don  Giuseppe  sat  con- 
versing, and  played  with  the  slim,  black  branches 
of  the  cypresses,  ranged  along  the  wall  in  the 
highest  part  of  the  kitchen-garden.  The  light 
of  the  moon  shone  through  a  sheet  of  milky  clouds, 
which  stretched  across  from  the  softly  outlined 
profiles  of  Galbiga  and  Bisgnago,  to  the  wild 
cliffs  of  Picco  di  Cressogno  and  the  smooth  brow 
of  Boglia;  and  from  time  to  time  the  veiled  form 

403 


404  The    Sinner 

of  the  orb  itself  would  appear  for  a  moment, 
whitening  the  oleanders,  which  were  in  full  bloom, 
the  foliage,  the  roses,  the  gravel  of  the  path,  the 
lofty  flank  of  the  little  church  of  Oria,  and  the 
rustic  and  ancient  campanile,  towering  above  the 
garden.  It  was  a  stormy  night,  both  in  the  sky 
and  on  earth,  and  the  conversation  under  the 
pine  tree  was  often  interrupted  by  silences  that 
were  full  of  expectancy,  or  ruffled  by  lingering 
breaths  of  the  Spirit,  or  illumined  by  some  hidden 
thing,  which  now  appeared,  now  vanished.  At 
times  Don  Giuseppe  seemed  to  be  crushed  beneath 
a  great  weight,  which  darkened  his  very  soul; 
at  times  he  became  transfigured,  and  raised  his 
radiant  brow;  then  his  eyes  shone,  and  his  gestures 
became  eloquent.  As  to  Piero,  the  seriousness 
of  his  bearing  never  varied.  The  fire  of  his  ardent 
eyes  seemed  to  be  burning  deep  down  within  him, 
while  his  words  had  a  dignity  and  a  firmness  which 
were  new  to  them.  It  was  Don  Giuseppe  who 
broke  the  silence  whenever  the  hush  fell  upon 
surrounding  nature,  and  silence  was  once  more 
renewed  between  them  when  the  wind  filled  all 
nature  with  noise.  It  was  usually  a  soliloquy 
that  fell  from  his  lips,  a  painful  returning  of  his 
thoughts  to  the  difficulties  of  a  trust  he  had  now 
irrevocably  undertaken.  Five  hours  before,  Piero 
had  signed  an  act  before  a  notary  at  Porlezza,  con- 
signing all  his  possessions  to  Don  Giuseppe,  and 
it  was  understood  between  them  that  the  priest 
should  take  into  partnership  certain  persons  Piero 


Without   Trace  405 

had  pointed  out,  and  with  their  aid  found  a  sort 
of  co-operative  agricultural  association,  which 
should  be  capable  of  extension  and,  within  certain 
limits,  accessible  to  all  who  might  wish  to  join. 
In  this  association  the  soil,  considered  as  an  in- 
strument of  production,  should  end  by  becoming 
common  property,  and  the  statutes  should  be  of 
a  religious  nature;  thus  the  Christian  aim  of  the 
association  would  absorb  and  dominate  its  finan- 
cial aim.  Should  Don  Giuseppe's  counsellors  not 
approve  of  the  scheme,  or  should  it  prove  a  fail- 
ure, the  entire  property  was  to  be  divided  into 
lots,  which  lots  were  to  be  entrusted  to  certain  care- 
fully selected  families  of  peasants,  who  should 
cultivate  the  land  on  trial  for  a  time,  after 
which  period  it  should  become  their  own  property. 
Don  Giuseppe  had  suggested  this  last  clause; 
without  it  he  could  never  have  been  induced  to 
accept  the  endowment,  and  the  responsibility  of 
an  experiment  in  which  he  had  little  faith.  If 
Piero  had  not  succeeded  in  convincing  him  of  the 
wisdom  of  creating  an  association  which,  as  far 
as  possible,  should  be  open  to  all,  and  in  which 
the  soil  should  be  essentially  common  capital, 
he  had  succeeded  in  convincing  him  that  his  in- 
tellect was  wonderfully  strong  and  firm,  and  this 
by  the  vigour  of  his  reasoning  and  the  composure 
of  his  bearing.  He  had  given  proof  of  calm  dis- 
crimination when  Don  Giuseppe  had  expressed 
a  scruple  that  by  thus  disposing  of  moneys  which 
had  been  relinquished  in  order  that  they  might 


406  The    Sinner 

be  devoted  to  certain  purposes,  he  should  be  un- 
justly maintaining  a  semblance  of  proprietorship. 
Don  Giuseppe's  conscience  was  not  easy  on  this 
point. 

"Pardon  me,"  the  old  priest  said  suddenly. 
"Pardon  me  if  my  question  is  indiscreet.  Was 
this  idea  part  of  your  vision?" 

After  that  solemn  and  painful  day  the  vision 
had  never  been  mentioned  between  them.  Don 
Giuseppe  had  not  ventured  to  speak  of  it,  nor 
had  Piero  ever  alluded  to  it. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "This  idea  is  the  fruit  of  long 
mental  labour,  and  has  now  gathered  strength 
within  me  through  the  Christian  sentiment,  be- 
cause I  honestly  believe  the  appropriation  of  the 
soil  for  the  benefit  of  the  few  to  be  most  unjust, 
and  I  furthermore  believe  that  the  foundation  of 
such  well-ordered  groups  as  these  would  con- 
tribute to  the  healing  of  the  ills  from  which  society 
suffers.  But  what  is  of  most  importance  to  me 
is  that  I  do  not  fling  away  my  fortune  at  random, 
but  rather  bestow  it  wisely  upon  the  needy,  ac- 
cording to  a  strict  idea  of  justice.  A  month  ago 
I  was  resolved  to  relinquish  all,  without  any 
religious  sentiment,  but  simply  for  the  sake  of 
justice  in  one  particular  case.  Of  this  you  are 
already  aware.  I  now  see  that  this  was  not 
reasonable,  and  that  I  am  doing  much  better  in 
relinquishing  everything  for  the  sake  of  a  justice 
that  is  general.  The  vision  refers  only  to  my 
life  after  my  renunciation." 


Without    Trace  4°7 

"I  think,"  Don  Giuseppe  observed  timidly, 
"that  you  alluded  to  two  distinct  parts  of  your 
vision." 

"  Yes, "  said  Piero,  "  but  in  the  second  part .  .  ." 

They  heard  the  dip  of  oars  and  the  sound  of 
voices.  A  boat  was  approaching,  and  passed 
slowly  beneath  the  wall  of  the  kitchen  garden. 
When  all  was  silent  once  more,  Piero  threw  his 
arm  round  Don  Giuseppe's  neck. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  he.  "I  had  rather  not 
speak  of  it.  I  mean  of  my  vision .  I  feel  unworthy 
.to  do  so." 

"One  word  more.  Do  you  still  believe  it  was 
of  a  supernatural  nature?" 

"It  now  seems  to  me  that  it  was  of  a  super- 
natural nature  in  so  far  as  it  tallied  with  certain 
voices  which,  at  one  time,  I  used  to  hear  at  inter- 
vals, and  also  as  regards  the  order  for  me  to  lead 
a  life  of  poverty,  of  penitence,  and  of  prayer.  I 
also  believe  it  to  be  of  a  supernatural  nature  when 
it  points  out  to  me  my  future  public  mission.  As 
regards  the  preannouncement  of  certain  events, 
I  have  formed  no  opinion.  I  will  accept  at  God's 
hands  whatever  He  may  see  fit  to  send.  I  have, 
however,  felt  it  my  duty  to  write  out  a  description 
of  my  vision.  It  is  already  enclosed  in  a  sealed 
packet  which  you  will  take  care  of,  for  it  is  not 
to  be  opened  until  after  my  death." 

Don  Giuseppe  smiled,  and  made  a  gesture 
which  meant  that  he  would  certainly  die  first. 

"In    any   case,"    Piero   went   on,    "you   must 


4°8  The    Sinner 

choose  some  responsible  person,   who  will  open 
it  eventually." 

The  shadows  that  the  mention  of  death  always 
spreads,  the  shadows  of  the  solemn  and  tragic 
future  they  were  picturing  to  themselves,  en- 
veloped the  two  men  seated  upon  the  bench. 
Don  Giuseppe  was  thinking  of  certain  details 
Piero  had  communicated  to  him  immediately 
after  the  vision,  and  comparing  them  with  the 
words  he  had  just  spoken.  What  mission  in  the 
Church  could  this  young  man  be  called  upon  to 
fulfil?  His  profound  intellect  suggested  to  him 
many  different  suppositions,  and  he  recalled 
many  longings,  full  of  doubt,  which  he  himself 
had  cherished  long  ago,  longings  for  a  Catholic 
reform  in  the  Church.  These  thoughts  he  had 
never  clearly  expressed  to  any  one,  perhaps  he 
had  never  even  clearly  conceived  them,  such  were 
his  veneration  and  humility.  A  whistling  wind 
tore  along  the  shore,  a  gust  swept  the  banks, 
a  swift,  black  shadow  spread  over  the  lake,  while 
the  lofty  pine  creaked  in  response  to  this  tumult. 
At  the  same  moment  the  inquisitive  moon  looked 
forth,  its  white  light  frosting  the  oleanders  in  full 
bloom,  the  foliage,  and  the  roses,  the  gravel  of 
the  path,  the  lofty  flank  of  the  church,  and  the 
rustic  campanile  towering  above  the  garden. 
In  Don  Giuseppe's  profound  thoughts,  disposed 
as  he  was  to  intimate  communion  with  nature 
as  well  as  to  intimate  communion  with  God,  the 
drama  of  the  wind,  the  waves,  and  the  moon,  and 


Without   Trace  4°9 

the  drama  of  this  soul,  once  darkened  by  passion, 
now  mysteriously  illumined  by  the  Spirit,  were 
mingled  and  blended  into  one. 

Some  one  entered  the  kitchen  garden.  It  was 
the  care-taker,  who  had  come  to  say  that  the  keys 
of  the  cemetery,  which  his  master  had  asked  for, 
had  been  brought  to  the  house,  and  that  he  him- 
self had  brought  a  postal  packet  for  Piero  from 
San  Mamette. 

On  their  way  towards  the  house,  they  passed  the 
old  rose-bush  that  bore  the  little  pink  roses,  and 
Piero  paused. 

"  I  will  set  it  down  in  writing  as  well, "  said  he, 
"but  I  wish  to  beg  you  personally  to  see  that 
the  Sisters  take  the  greatest  care  of  the 
oleanders,  which  are  still  the  very  ones  my  father 
planted,  and  also  of  the  roses,  and  especially  of 
the  orange  tree  and  the  mandarin  in  the  little 
garden." 

The  tiny  villa  in  which  Franco  and  Luisa  had 
loved  and  suffered  so  deeply,  in  which  the  heroic 
virtue  and  the  generous  resignation  of  Uncle 
Piero  had  wrought  so  much  good,  the  spot  where 
little  Missipipi  had  perished,  was  destined  to 
receive  the  convalescent  Sisters  of  an  order  which 
Don  Giuseppe  would  choose,  and  to  contain  a 
school  where  the  girls  of  the  commune  of  Albo- 
gasio  might  receive  instruction  in  needlework  and 
housework. 

"You  can  keep  yourself  informed  about  that," 
Don  Giuseppe  suggested.  The  young  man  made 


410  The   Sinner 

no  answer,  but  bent  his  head  and  placed  his  lip 
upon  a  rose. 

"Ah,  Don  Giuseppe!"  said  he,  as  they  left  the 
kitchen  garden,  "  I  can  indeed  say  to  the  Lord  : 
Quaerens  me  sedisti  lassus!  How  many  times  did 
He  call  me,  and  I  still  persevered  in  my  determi- 
nation to  lose  myself!  Even  after  your  last  dear 
letter!  It  was  doubtless  in  order  that  I  might 
acknowledge  everything  as  coming  from  Him, 
and  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  as  coming  from 
myself." 


II 


The  packet  that  had  come  by  post  was  in  the 
hall.  Piero  carried  it  to  the  light  and  read  upon 
the  stamp  the  words: 

Vena  di  Ponte  Alta. 

He  laid  it  down,  and  taking  the  keys  of  the 
cemetery,  told  Don  Giuseppe  he  was  going  out 
for  a  few  minutes.  Should  he  find  him  still  up, 
on  his  return?  Don  Giuseppe  was  tired  and 
wished  to  write  a  letter  before  going  to  bed.  The 
mention  of  the  letter  reminded  him  to  inquire 
what  Piero's  plans  were.  Don  Giuseppe  himself 
would  like  to  leave  very  soon,  and  wished  to 
announce  the  day  of  his  arrival  in  this  letter. 

"Do  just  as  you  like,"  said  Piero.  "Write 
whatever  you  think  best." 


Without  Trace  411 

His  discreet  old  friend  did  not  venture  to  ques- 
tion him  more  closely. 

All  alone  Piero  turned  towards  the  cemetery. 
The  wind  and  the  lake  were  still.  Long  lines  of 
cypresses,  groups  of  thickly  branching  olives, 
and  the  brows  of  the  lofty  mountains  showed 
black  against  the  pale,  even  whiteness  of  a  thin 
sheet  of  cloud.  The  path  and  the  grassy  slope 
on  the  left,  the  little  fields  on  the  right,  lying  beside 
the  sleeping  waters,  looked  grey  in  the  veiled 
light  of  the  moon.  Piero  met  no  living  soul  on 
the  way.  Upon  the  steps  of  the  cemetery,  near 
the  gate,  a  ragged  old  man  was  kneeling,  who 
rose  at  Piero 's  approach,  and  having  scanned  his 
face,  said  timidly,  with  a  half -idiotic  smile:  "I 
was  just  saying  a  prayer  or  two  for  my  dead.  You 
must  be  the  son  of  poor  Sciora  Luisa.  How  kind 
your  mother  used  to  be  to  me!  She  was  a  good 
woman,  that  she  was  indeed!" 

Piero  gave  the  man  a  generous  alms,  and  he 
presently  limped  away,  mumbling:  "Just  think  of 
that  now!  Just  think  of  that!" 

Then  Piero  opened  the  gate,  removed  his  hat, 
and  entered  the  cemetery. 

On  the  left,  almost  opposite  the  gate,  against  the 
wall  on  the  hillside,  were  four  white  marble  stones, 

Upon  the  first  were  carved  the  words: 

HERE  RESTS 

THE  SWEET  LITTLE  GARMENT  THAT  CLOTHED 
MARIA  MAIRONI. 


412  The    Sinner 


The  second  stone  bore  the  words 

INGEGNERE    PIETRO    RIBERA. 

A  GREAT  AND  LOYAL  HEART 

IS  AT  REST. 

Death  had  so  arranged  his  visits  that  the  sweet 
child  and  the  old  man,  who  had  loved  to  hold  her 
in  his  arms  and  sing  "Proud  shade  of  the  river" 
to  her,  should  still  sleep  side  by  side. 

Upon  the  third  stone  were  the  words: 

TO  FRANCO 
IN  GOD, 

HIS  LUISA. 

Upon  the  Fourth: 

TO 
LUISA  MAIRONI  RIGEY. 

PIERO  MAIRONI, 

WHO  KNEW  NOT  THE  MOTHER'S  HIDDEN  FACE, 
RAISED  THIS  STONE 
WITH  A  SIGH. 

1882. 

In  the  luminous  night  the  black  letters  of  the 
epitaphs  could  easily  be  read.  To  the  left  of 
the  last  stone  the  freshly  upturned  soil  marked 
the  spot  where  poor  Elisa  lay  at  rest. 

Piero  knelt  upon  the  grass  and  bowed  his  head. 
His  lips  did  not  move,  nor  did  a  single  muscle 


Without   Trace  4!3 

of  his  body.  He  might  have  been  turned  to  stone 
while  praying  reverently,  in  the  attitude  of  one 
who  feels  ghostly  hands  hovering  above  his  head 
in  the  act  of  benediction.  When  at  last  he  raised 
his  eyes,  the  moon  had  stealthily  dropped  to  its 
setting;  the  holy  field  and  the  walls  had  grown 
dark;  he  could  no  longer  read  the  epitaphs,  and 
the  hands  that  had  blessed  him  had  been  drawn 
upwards  once  more  to  their  mysterious  dwelling- 
place. 


ill 


Don  Giuseppe  lingered  in  contemplation  of  the 
lake,  of  the  shadows,  of  the  night,  of  a  distant 
light  up  among  the  crags  of  San  Salvatore.  He 
was  thinking  how  greatly  man  had  changed  in 
Valsolda  since  the  good  old  days,  and  how  slight 
had  been  the  change  in  things.  Upon  Piero's 
return  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  gave  the 
young  man's  hands  a  silent  pressure,  which  meant: 
"  I  know  where  you  have  been." 

"  You  have  not  yet  opened  your  postal  packet," 
said  he. 

The  care-taker  offered  to  do  this,  and  Piero  con- 
sented. Then,  lighting  a  candle,  he  conducted 
Don  Giuseppe  to  the  neighbouring  alcove-room, 
and  told  him  that  he  had  no  doubt  the  packet 
was  from  "her."  It  probably  contained  flowers 
for  the  cemetery.  He,  however,  would  not  take 
them  there;  he  had  not  even  allowed  himself  to 


4H  The    Sinner 

pluck  a  rose  for  his  father  when  they  had  passed 
the  bushes  in  the  kitchen  garden  just  now.  But 
he  wished  to  speak  to  Don  Giuseppe  about  "  her. " 

"  I  believe  she  is  to  return  to  Villa  Diedo  about 
the  beginning  of  September, "  said  he.  "  I  should 
like  you  to  see  her  then." 

The  care-taker  came  in  with  the  open  packet. 
It  was  indeed  a  box  of  cut  flowers.  A  simple 
visiting  card  accompanied  them: 

CARLO  DESSALLE. 

But  Jeanne's  soul  was  among  them,  and  the 
broken,  dying  blossoms,  the  sweet-smelling  cy- 
clamens from  the  woods  of  Vena,  the  rhodo- 
dendrons from  Rio  Freddo,  the  edelweiss  from 
Picco  Astore,  spoke  of  her  alone,  of  her  love,  her 
grief,  her  timid  offering,  and  her  discreet  silence. 

Piero  read  the  card  and  then  looked  thought- 
fully at  the  flowers. 

"  It  is  her  brother's  card, "  said  he,  after  a  short 
pause.  "So  you  can  present  yourself  at  Villa 
Diedo  and  thank  him  in  my  name.  But  try  to 
see  her  also.  It  would  be  better  to  see  her  alone. 
She  herself  will  probab  y  wish  to  see  you  alone. 
Tell  her  I  am  leaving  my  friends,  but  that  I  hope 
to  meet  them  once  more  in  the  true  life,  and  that, 
meanwhile,  I  beg  them  to  pardon  me  for  any 
harm  I  may  have  done  them,  in  any  way  whatso- 
ever. Tell  her  also  that  when  I  shall  have  left 
the  world  I  shall  pray  with  especial  fervour  for  a 


Without  Trace  4J5 

soul  that  is  afflicted  with  scepticism,  a  soul  that 
would  become  sublime  should  it  give  to  the  Creator 
the  love  it  has  given  to  a  creature.  Have  I  ever 
told  you,  Don  Giuseppe,  that  I  owe  it  to  her  alone 
if  my  mental  transgression  did  not  become  a 
transgression  in  deed?" 

Don  Giuseppe,  silent,  and  with  bowed  head, 
was  thinking  not  of  the  difficult  interview  with 
Signora  Dessalle,  but  of  the  mystery  with  which 
Piero  surrounded  his  plans  for  the  future.  Which 
religious  order  did  he  intend  to  join?  Would  he, 
indeed,  join  any  order,  or  would  he  choose  to 
remain  free  to  frame  his  life  as  he  pleased?  How 
would  he  frame  it,  and  when?  At  last  both  rose 
and  left  the  room  together.  While  they  were 
saying  good-night  the  care-taker  told  Don  Giuseppe 
that  the  parish  priest  had  sent  to  ask  at  what 
time  he  wished  to  say  Mass  the  next  morning. 
Don  Giuseppe  glanced  at  Piero  as  if  to  ascertain 
his  wishes,  but  Piero  was  silent.  Then  he  himself 
answered : 

"At  seven  o'clock." 

The  blossoms  from  the  distant  mountains  were 
left  in  the  alcove-room,  sad  and  neglected,  like  the 
woman  who  had  secretly  breathed  her  deep  grief 
upon  them.  Thus  many  years  before,  in  that 
same  room,  had  Luisa  breathed  her  deep  grief 
upon  other  broken  and  dying  flowers. 

IV 

Before  going  to  bed  Don  Giuseppe  wrote  Mar- 
chesa  Nene  the  following  letter: 


416  The    Sinner 

"MOST    REVERED    SlGNORA  MARCHESA, 

"We  have  placed  your  darling  in  that  field  of 
rest  to  which  her  pious  and  gentle  wishes  pointed. 
It  was  a  solemn  moment.  The  cemetery  itself,  the 
steps  that  lead  to  it,  and  the  narrow  lane  below  it 
were  crowded  with  silent,  sorrowing  onlookers.  I 
spoke  to  her  the  Lord  has  chosen,  as  best  I  could, 
both  in  the  name  of  those  she  has  preceded  in  death 
and  of  those  to  whom  she  has  ascended  like  a  devoted 
daughter.  I  saw  the  people  shedding  tears  of  pity 
for  this  young  woman  whom  they  had  never  known, 
but  who  had  chosen  their  humble  churchyard  for  her 
last  resting-place.  They  wept  also  at  the  affectionate 
memory  all  here  still  cherish  for  those  who  are  near 
her  beneath  the  sod,  as  well  as  in  Heaven.  The 
cemetery  is  a  beautiful  spot,  surrounded  by  olives 
and  grape-vines  and  not  far  from  the  shores  of  the 
lake.  The  clear  sky,  the  shining  water,  the  summer 
breeze,  the  gay  rustling  of  the  branches  all  seemed 
to  bid  us  dry  our  tears,  assuring  us  that  our  dear 
one  was  basking  in  the  ineffable  joy  of  the  Divine 
Vision. 

"I  received  your  letter  this  morning.  I  assure 
you  I  myself  was  greatly  dismayed  when  your  son- 
in-law  informed  me  of  his  resolve  to  withdraw  from 
the  world  and  lead  a  life  of  absolute  poverty  and 
penitence,  and  I  performed  what  I  believed  to  be 
my  duty  when  I  advised  him  to  reflect,  to  pray,  to 
wait  patiently  for  a  confirmation  of  the  Divine  Will. 
I  am  willing  to  confess  that,  in  consideration  of  his 
talents,  his  culture,  his  social  position,  and  this  un- 
expected return  to  the  Christian  faith  which  God  has 
brought  about  in  such  a  mysterious  manner,  I  could 
have  wished  him  to  take  an  active  part  in  public  life, 
especially  as  he  could  have  been  of  such  great  service 


Without    Trace  417 

to  this  unhappy  country  of  ours.  However,  I  soon 
saw  that  Signer  Piero  was  not  to  be  shaken  in  his 
resolve,  and  at  present  I  should  very  much  doubt 
the  wisdom  of  seeking  to  influence  him.  He  is  most 
impatient  to  enter  upon  his  new  life,  and  I  have  al- 
lowed him  to  entrust  his  property  to  me,  to  be  dis- 
posed of  as  he  has  already  appointed.  The  act  of 
transfer  was  signed  this  afternoon  before  a  local 
notary,  and  to-morrow  Signor  Piero  will  give  me  those 
instructions  in  writing,  which  he  has  already  im- 
parted to  me  by  word  of  mouth.  Perhaps,  at  the 
same  time,  he  may  tell  me  something  about  the  date 
of  his  departure  from  this  place,  and  about  the  order 
he  intends  to  join.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  have  no 
right  to  assert  that  he  intends  to  join  any  religious 
order.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  the  arrangements 
Signor  Piero  has  made,  certain  vague  allusions  to  the 
future  he  has  uttered,  and  which  I  will  repeat  to  you 
when  we  meet,  and,  above  all,  his  great  grief,  and  the 
wonderful  nature  of  the  events  which  have  led  to 
this  change  in  him,  inspire  me  with  hope,  most 
revered  Signora  Marchesa,  that  your  affliction  may 
bear  such  fruit  that,  seeing  it,  you  will  rise  up  and 
praise  God,  as  you  have  hitherto  praised  Him  in  all 
His  dealings  with  you,  without  seeing,  and  through 
faith  alone.  I  am  filled  with  hope  that  it  may  bear 
such  fruit  as  to  dispel  certain  doubts,  certain  sus- 
picions and  fears  concerning  your  son-in-law's  re- 
ligious fervour  which  have  reached  my  ears,  and 
which  are  not  entirely  devoid  of  foundation  if  judged 
according  to  the  wisdom  of  this  world.  A  fructibus 
eorum  cognoscetis  eos. 

"May  God  continue  to  bless  you  with  holy  thoughts, 
and  prolong  the  days  among  us  of  one  who  reflects 
so  much  of  His  light  and  of  His  peace. 


418  The    Sinner 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  say  Mass  for  the  repose  of  your 
beloved  Elisa's  soul. 

"Your  most  devoted 
*'DoN  GIUSEPPE  FLORES." 


The  next  morning,  before  issuing  from  the 
sacristy  to  say  Mass,  Don  Giuseppe  inquired  if 
Signor  Maironi  was  already  in  the  church,  and 
upon  hearing  that  he  was  not,  waited  some  time, 
ready  robed.  At  last,  although  Piero  had  not 
yet  arrived,  the  priest  was  obliged  to  celebrate. 
Upon  his  return  to  the  sacristy  he  found  the 
care-taker  there.  The  man  could  hardly  wait  for 
Don  Giuseppe  to  finish  the  prayers  of  thanks- 
giving before  begging  him,  in  a  trembling  voice 
arid  with  an  anxious  face,  to  come  home  without 
delay.  What  had  happened?  The  care-taker 
did  not  reply  until  he  had  closed  the  outer  door  of 
the  villa  behind  them.  Then  his  only  answer  was 
an  outburst  of  weeping. 

"Good  Heavens!  What  is  the  matter?"  cried 
Don  Giuseppe.  "Speak,  man!" 

But  the  poor  fellow  could  not  speak;  his  sobs 
prevented  any  explanation. 

"Read  that!"  he  said,  with  difficulty,  and 
offered  the  priest  a  note. 

Don  Giuseppe  glanced  at  it,  and  at  once  saw 
what  had  happened.  He  exhibited  no  astonish- 
ment, and  bade  the  care-taker  accompany  him  to 
the  room  Piero  had  occupied. 


Without    Trace  419 

It  was  a  small  room  on  the  top  floor,  with  two 
windows,  one  looking  southwards,  above  the  roof 
of  the  hall,  towards  Monte  Bisgnago;  the  other 
looking  westwards,  above  the  little  hanging- 
garden,  and  across  the  long  and  narrow  mirror 
of  water  that  stretches  from  Gandria  to  San 
Salvatore.  Both  windows  were  open;  the  peace 
of  the  lake  and  of  the  mountains  pervaded  the 
empty  room.  A  bag  and  an  overcoat  of  Piero's 
were  upon  the  chest  of  drawers,  his  walking-stick 
and  umbrella  stood  in  one  corner,  and  Don 
Giuseppe's  first  exclamation  was  one  of  surprise. 

"His  things  are  all  here!" 

But  on  the  writing-desk  they  found  a  letter 
with  the  following  superscription: 

For  you,  Don  Giuseppe,  and  may  God  reward 
you  for  all  you  have  done  for  me. 

The  bed  had  not  been  slept  in,  and  Don  Giuseppe 
asked  the  caretaker  if  he  had  heard  any  one  go 
down-stairs  or  open  the  outer  door  in  the  night. 
No,  he  had  heard  nothing.  In  fact  at  half -past 
seven  the  outer  door  had  still  been  locked.  But 
at  half-past  six  Don  Giuseppe  had  found  the 
garden  gate  wide  open.  Piero  must  have  gone 
that  way.  Don  Giuseppe  read  his  letter.  It 
contained  only  the  instructions  Piero  had  pro- 
mised him,the  confirmation  of  what  he  had  already 
told  him,  and  a  sealed  envelope,  bearing  the 
words:  To  be  opened  after  Piero  Maironi's  death. 
The  note  to  the  care-taker  contained  only  an 
affectionate  farewell,  a  few  words  of  praise  and  of 


420  The    Sinner 

thanks,  and  the  order  to  look  upon  Don  Giuseppe 
Flores  as  his  master.  The  care-taker,  ignorant 
of  all  the  circumstances,  and  utterly  unable  to 
account  for  Maironi's  disappearance,  feared  his 
grief  at  the  loss  of  his  wife  had  driven  him  to  do 
something  desperate,  and  immediately  began  to 
talk  of  making  inquiries  at  Porlezza  and  at 
Lugano. 

"No,  no!"  said  Don  Giuseppe.  "Do  not 
fear  for  him.  The  Lord  Himself  is  leading 
him.  If  it  be  God's  will  we  shall  see  him 
again.  Meanwhile  he  wishes  to  hide  himself 
from  the  world.  We  must  respect  this  wish  of 
his." 

For  the  moment  the  faithful  servant  was  silent, 
but  later  he  could  not  resist  the  desire  to  seek 
for  some  trace  of  his  master.  But  not  the  faintest 
trace  could  he  discover.  No  one  had  met  him,  no 
one  had  seen  him,  no  one  had  heard  his  steps. 
If  the  day  shall  ever  dawn  upon  which  will  be 
revealed  to  us  the  secret  journeyings  of  the 
vanished  man,  and  the  reason  of  all  this  mystery 
be  made  clear  to  us,  only  He  who  called  him  to 
fight  His  battles  knows. 


THE  END 


A  Selection  from  the 
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discovers  that  his  wife  despises  him  and  has  merely 
allowed  herself  to  be  sold  as  payment  of  her  father's 
debt.  How  he  tries  to  overcome  this  feeling  and 
what  effect  his  generous  and  big-hearted  nature  finally 
has  upon  her  must  be  left  for  the  reader  to  find  out 
for  himself.  Like  The  Scarlet  Pimpernel,  the  present 
story  is  oi  intense  dramatic  interest  and  shows  great 
emotional  strength. 

Crown  8vo.     $1.50 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK.  LONDON 


"  Myrtle  Reed  has  certainly  an  instinct  for  the  ex- 
quisite phrase,  a  delicate  touch  for  an  allegory,  a  capacity 
for  using  words  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  notes  in 
music,  to  weave  together  into  a  melody." 

Milwaukee  Sentinel. 


A  Spinner  in  the  Sun 

By  MYRTLE:  REED 

Author  of  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace,"  "  The  Master's  Violin,"  etc. 

Uniform  with  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace,"  etc.    Crown 

8vo.  Cloth,  extra  gilt  top,  printed  in  red  and 

black,  net,  $1.50.     Full  red  leather, 

net,   $2.00.     Antique   calf, 

net,  $2.50.    Lavender 

silk,  net,  $3.50 

The  thousands  who  have  enjoyed  the  gentle  humor, 
the  story-telling  skill,  and  the  delicate  sentiment  of 
"  Lavender  and  Old  Lace  "  will  find  the  same  qualities 
in  "  A  Spinner  in  the  Sun."  While  striking  the  chords 
of  humor,  pathos,  and  sentiment,  which  formerly  have 
never  failed  to  charm  Miss  Reed's  admirers,  it  is  more 
likely  to  please  the  exacting  critic  than  anything  else 
she  has  written— and  this  because  it  evinces  a  firmer 
grasp  of  character  and  a  more  serious  grappling 
with  the  problems  of  life.  It  also  has  the  advantage 
of  an  interesting  entanglement  of  plot  which  throws 
over  it  the  glamour  of  romance. 

A  complete  descriptive  circular  of  Miss  Reed's  books 
sent  on  application 


Q.   P.   PUTNAM'S   SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


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